francis quies

She was learning to be comfortable with silence. Because it was his, and she cherished the things that were his. Amongst all sincere efforts to demonstrate how deeply he loved her during the short time they had been together, at times he appeared so curiously distant. He didn’t make any frivolous conversation, rather, he would sit in a dedicated silence, so consumed that she was certain he wouldn’t speak for his remaining life unless asked a question. She could sense his mind spinning on an axis, so that what appeared to her a multicolored blur was to him a textured cartography of thought, rivers, and mountain ranges. The velocity drew her in, insatiable, and she would feel the urge to halt the whirling inertia with a touch of her finger and say “That! There! What is that thought and where is it from!”