“And so it has happened,” I thought catching her eye.

I’m not saying that she’s crazy; the voice in the girl’s head is her own.  While we all have moments where thought takes voice rolling around inside of us to calm or negotiate most people live outside their mind.

But not that one, not any longer.

Does she scream in anger behind her slow smile with eyes lowered, constantly correcting others without glancing up from her task, or even question in synch with the nodding of her head?

It has crept up upon her slowly swallowing the girl’s voice, it is not that she lacks confidence or conviction, but the girl with midnight eyes is a peace keeper.  I watch from afar I see eyes always open taking in the situation mouth shut tight lest she unleash thoughtlessly a wry sense of humor.  So I say naught but the girl thinks much always commenting to an audience of one.

I cannot think back to the start.  Was there ever a time where her mouth directly connected to her brain, no filter no censure?  Too long she has bitten her tongue words now taste bitter and unfamiliar.

We stand now face to face.

Deeper into her thoughts she crawls savoring each moment the mask snaps up in perfection concealing the wild abandon of her inner dialogue.  Where true freedom of speech can be ascertained and limited only by the judgement she would pass on herself.

I smile the small smile we retain for those we hardly know.

“Why is it that I feel more honest even if the truth is not uttered aloud as long as I have told it to myself,” I wonder.  Why does she choose to hold back can she be assuming the responses to my unspoken replies?  Is it because so few people truly listen anymore, pouncing on key phrases as if scripted or prompted?

Perhaps, it is her deep love of semantics.  The way that even the smallest word can carry layers of meaning and emotion.  Her great appreciation of language not paralyzing but rather striking within the girl a profound awe.

So her eyes go flat as she concentrates on what I do not say and the conversation drags with pauses that are often read as disinterest.  So her sentences do not always start where other’s might, she’s farther in.

She has crossed the line in the sand and more now goes unsaid.  A part of her withdraws, not forced but bowing out.  What lingers on still smiles, though not effortlessly, still laughs, but not deeply, still sheds tears, without sobbing, and is still yours.

“But,” I think as I turn away from the mirror.

I am internally mine.