The Story That's Never Been Told

His lips leaped forward,

wanting to catch hers,

And as her hands stopping his,

which have moved several steps ahead,

she held her breath and stared,

wanting to catch his eyes.

"You don't even know me."

He looked at her, confused,

but more than anything, intrigued.

"You don't even know my favorite color."

She continued.

"You never tell."

"You never ask."

"What's so important about it?"

"We never really talk, you never really try

to just connect with me, you know,

emotionally."

As he paused, she prayed so hard,

so hard for him to say those words.

"I don't know your favorite color,

but I know you love your dad so much,

that his initial would be your first tattoo,

if you ever get one.

I know you always, weirdly,

wear your watch the wrong way,

with the analog just below your palm,

instead of facing upward, 

on the back of your wrist.

I know you love coffee a lot,

and that you like it black and hot,

neither with sugar nor milk,

but with cinnamon powder on top.

I know you twirl your hairs before you sleep.

I remember all of the things you've told me. 

And I know that I want to know more."

If only he'd tell her, she'd drag him closer,

by his collar, knowing she had let the right guy

to take what she shared only along with trust.

But he stayed, silent,

before he got back on his seat

and started back the car's engine on.

"Thames Street?"

Then she sighed,

"Thames Street."

That night,

none of them got what they wanted.