Implicit

I always liked layers and fabrics and books, the pages you turn over and over to get to the end, the layers of fabrics one upon another to create a masterpiece.

I loved layers, whether it was paint that I layered upon my canvas or the layers of flavors in my food.

I always liked to be implicit, distant, aloof, and unreadable. It was a strange sense of power and protection, and mystery. I felt like a book that you buy and then open and then read and then think. I wasn’t readily available. I liked being an inaccessible book, the one you can’t find online but only exists in special stores. I liked being the rarest silk, layer upon layer slipping through your hand.

And I liked coffee too, deep, dark, flavors strong yet leaving you wondering, is there cinnamon in it too?

I liked winter, things covered in mist and fog, and trees naked. I liked trees being naked. Around winter, I look at trees that have no leaves left to cover their nakedness. I feel for them because I have been there too……. powerless, unprotected, and naked; emotionally.

As I let out all the layers of my emotions and fears in front of you, thinking you would choose my rarest silk. As I opened my book, I dusted away all the dust to make sure you could read me properly. And I gave you the recipe for my coffee and a lantern to go through the fog. It was the only time I did it so ferociously, so bravely. I was no longer power drunk and Machiavellian. I was just me.

But as you left the silk, the book, the recipe, and the lantern, you forgot to cover my nakedness.

Much like the trees, I had no more leaves to cover me.

I found it cowardly. How could someone not close a book after reading it page by page?

I want to be covered again in silk. I don’t like my nakedness.

I want you to un-read me and not figure out my coffee.

I want to be implicit again.