and blink

He liked to see her face the first thing in the morning, her eyes mostly. They gave him a strange sense of excitement, a reminder that all playfulness is not lost, an invitation to see past them, a tickle to his curiosity.
He only had to seek them, and they would respond. Sometimes there was nothing to be said, but only an assurance to be sought, a presence to be felt. Sometimes their eyes started the conversation, their words filled in wherever required and again let the two pairs continue. Sometimes, they shied away from each other, a fear of being caught too long on a hope maybe.
Sometimes he sought them earnestly, when he said something not readily acceptable to a patterned thinking, his thoughts-not easily digestible to a conditioned appetite, his values-too old for an atrophying morality.

He wanted her to feel, what he felt on the top of that mountain, with clouds close to his feet, and sky almost within his fist. He wanted her to hear what the wind whispered to him that night.
He wanted her to see those things, which moved him to tears and laughter but none around him noticed.
He wanted to tell her tales by the night lamp, with their feet cuddled up in blanket in the winters. He wanted her to look at the smile of the little boy at being offered a chewing gum, look at the wrinkles of the old woman who served him hot tea and momos , see the sweat on the brow of the old potter making tea cups.
He wanted her to run on the beach; free, without care and inhibition.

He thought they had time for all of these : she blinked.
Perhaps he wanted too much.