I am not that expressive.
At my most excited I curve my mouth upward
my eyes smile, little lines stretching outward
like closed captioning for the expressive impaired,
and that little dimple on my right cheek appears.
At my most distraught, the lines fade
the eyes drift
fixing on nothing
the mouth curves in the other direction.
At my most excited, I stared back into her eyes,
my knee bent,
the smile on my face,
and she answered yes to my question,
staring down at the rock she already knew,
since she chose it
like she chose me.
At my most distraught, she said yes again,
when I asked her for the third time in three months, “Are you sure?”
And she put away that rock,
never to grace her finger again.
I’ve heard many women berate the unfaithfulness of men,
the bewitching incantation we all seem to have memorized to be able to
hypnotize our way into the hearts of women.
I am not one of these men.
I never made it to the school of wizardry and witchcraft,
and I was never any good at transmogrification.
I can’t shape-shift my way into a woman’s heart.
I am the wolf knocking on her door, and she calls back,
“I’m not home.”
But I am not a wolf.
I just seem that way because honesty is rough,
not groomed and pampered,
but wild and torn, and
but mostly just
So I am not that wayward seducer,
that betrayer of hearts.
I am not the one
whose phone was laced with innuendos,
messages from another lover,
a man who
sent to a woman who
whose messages I discovered,
whose sexual phrases should have come with a warning label—
Warning! Explicit Content! Not recommended for spouses!
Then maybe I wouldn’t have read them,
all of them,
and maybe she would have continued her own charade with
both of us
and maybe the lonely, honest wolf
could share the lie and not have to run
I guess I am expressive after all.
All it took was someone to break my smile.