Symptoms Well-Rehearsed

I know not the color of your eyes, But I know what is in them. I know how they analyze, Picking apart every mundane asset Of a universe we find bewitching; How they dance with understanding, Reflecting a life most dedicated To the art of knowing more. And I know how they fear, With cautious, scrutinizing movements Borne of trust and the betrayal that took it; Eyes I know will look to mine And beg this world to see the same— That I would never leave. I know not the sound of your voice, But I know what it speaks. I know how it speaks control, With the smooth, methodical candor Of a sentence well thought-out; A voice with many thousand days Of consideration and control, Experiments in communication. And I know how it speaks of melancholy, Of ages spent in ageless wait For one that may not be; That chronic touch of cynicism Brought by ancient mechanism, A defense by sarcasm. I know so little of you, And yet I know enough. So though I may not know your face When first I pass you by, Just look in my direction long That I may catch your eye. And though I may not hear your voice When first you call my name, Just speak aloud, as to yourself: I'll hear you all the same. And though we may not know at first When we have finally met, Keep watch for symptoms well-rehearsed And I will find you yet.