He didn’t have many fancy words for her. He had never been good with words. He had always envied the eloquence with which she spun around syllables into sweet sounding blues revering his body and his being. But he could not say much to her.
He could not tell her that he saw when her face changed colors, when all of sudden in the middle sentence she fell into a thought, the way she went quiet and inside her own head, doing her own thinking, of how her lips pursued when she did so and how badly it made him wanted to kiss her. He could not tell her that he knew she resisted intimacy especially afterwards when she would turn and sleep on her side of the bed but that later in the night she would curl into his shoulder and hold him and breathe with him. He could not tell her that he knew that sometimes she just lay with her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat.
He could not tell her that he saw how full of life she was, especially in the mornings, especially when he touched her soft and rough. He did not tell her that he knew how her eyes shone when she had a new idea. He could not tell her that he had heard her sing often while cooking for him. He did not tell her how amazing her hands felt all over body, his back and his chest, and that the smell of her oils still linger around his home.
He never possessed the brevity to express his admiration for the little things she did, for the little things that he saw. That is why he never told her. And that is why she never knew.