Two crossed hands above the left side of my rips.
When I am in the tube I see people talking. I see them talking, and sneezing and rolling their eyes. The way their upper lip curves into a hollow silhouette like the stone statues in Regents Park.
When I sit by the river, surrounded by green leaves and trees and ducks, I often see lovers on the other side of the water, I see the way the man bites his lower lip, see the way the woman’s cheek curves into a smile, before he kisses her.
I see the fireworks erupting.
And then there's me biting in my falafel sandwich wondering what it must be like.
My world is quiet. It's grey and dull like marble. It's Piccadilly Circus without the cars or Monet without his flowers. It's sitting in movie theatres wondering why everyone is laughing.
The Café where I like to sit has a glass front and i watch people while I pretend to read. The barista knows my order by now, i come here every Tuesday after class. He used to chat with me, but not anymore. Now he looks at me with an uncomfortable spark in his eyes, a curious glint but he will be too afraid to ask me about it.
I usually leave without a wave.
When I go back to my silent flat, I am welcomed with a peck on my lips and a soft knowing smile that tells me, you’re home, love, you are home.
I know each twitch of her lips, each shadow, the crescent line that looks like a moon, and the way her upper lip trembles when she is about to do something important. I kissed them when they were chapped and rough and salty. It’s a way of talking for us because when I speak my hands swirl around the words like a hawk looking for prey. When I get angry it’s fast furious fingers racing to beat each other 24/7. When I laugh it’s not a sound but soft hands clasping my chest, when she laughs, it vibrates deep in my stomach.
I know when she voices her thoughts it’s always to be kind. She is not stared at, or gets funny looks or a curious glance. When she talks it’s straight to the point, short sentences to make them understand that my quiet is chosen, that my silence is wanted, that my world is deaf, and dull and grey but it can be loud, oh so loud.
When she talks it’s fast, it’s a whirlwind of thunder, it’s medusas eyes wrapped up in the latin alphabet. When she talks, she only talks to defend me.
I make myself a cup of tea, smile, and look into her brown eyes to tell her I love her in the only words that I know: two crossed hands above the left side of my rips.