There's certain things she won't ever know. Like how much I really know about her, how much I could guess about who she really is. She doesn't know because she didn't tell me. She didn't confess anything in her sleep either. She just didn't tell me with her words. She told me with her mouth, her gestures and maneurisms, her walking, her stretching, the way she rips open café sugar envelopes and pours the sugar into her café coffee, the way she does it with spoonfuls of home sugar into her home coffee. I could glimpse the extent of her braveness by the way she accommodates in her seat.
It's the little things that define us. The way we rip open café sugar envelopes says so much about us, who we are, our wishes and hopes. The way we play with it afterwards or let it be by the cup's side sets us apart. It marks us different.
I could tell your eagerness by just observing the way you licked your lips. And if I get a glimpse of your hands... Your hands. I could see into the depth of your soul by looking at your hands.
