I can’t let anything out.

But, for some reason, I can find a way to squeeze you in. You sit there with a face set in stone, face devoid of a smile and eyes practically lifeless but I know you. I know that underneath the steel and the ice and the clean, precise lines resides a piece (small but nonetheless there) that is full of white-hot emotion, rumbling with heat that furls and writhes and twines so closely with vitality that it could very nearly be passion.

Sometimes, when you glance at me, I can see this fervor. It manifests in your half-smile and the raise of an eyebrow, arched subtly. (“Can I help you?”) Sometimes, you chuckle and it resonates in your chest and I can feel it even though I sit feet away from you. The moments are rare, but they are present.

And that is all I need.

Because even though you walk beside me without speaking, you will walk close enough that our shoulders occasionally brush.  You may not sit with me, but you will pass by me and drop something into my lap:  a note, a cookie, a heart (that seems hard and unyielding but actually beats very, very true). You will glance at me askance, but you will roll your eyes and I from that I know you care, because for anyone else you will simply exhale sharply and look away.

I can’t push anything out of me, but somehow and someway I can rearrange the parts of me to create a space for you.