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.
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