Reversal

The thing is . . .
*I'm* supposed to be the quiet one.
That is my accustomed role.

Shy around strangers - and especially handsome men.
I can't tell 'em, but I laugh at jokes - the worse, the better.
"Call me if you need ANYthing - even at 2am," is sincerely spoken.

"You're such a good listener," they say.
"I know I can trust you with anything."
"Thank you."

Tall shoulders to cry on.
An easy smile of encouragement.
Words to soothe.

I love my loved ones unwaveringly.
Loyalty is a virtue.
If troublesome, at times.

And then?
You.

You've upset my . . . knowing how
to act. In any other situation with any other person, I would be the one too shy to venture the first sentence. With you I babble. As if some tricky imp has stolen my tongue and randomly strung words together in a mesh and tangle of verbs, nouns and antecedents. Oh, what fool this mortal be, eh old Puck?

It's nerves.
It's butterflies.
It's being shy around a handsome man, but with quite a different outcome.
It's . . . the recollection of the cold, wintry night when you first kissed me.
And I kissed back.

It's the paradoxical certainty of something which should be completely uncertain.
It's my utter lack-of-control over the situation, which serves as my reminder that I'm better because of it. Because God's in control.
God is in control.

You have the strong shoulders.
You have the easy smile of encouragement.
And - though given more to action - your voice still soothes.

The situation may not be ideal, may not make (logical) sense.
But if everything were logical in life, we'd all be bored.

And I would give anything to tell you this in person tonight.
But all I can do is send a prayer of protection, thanks and love your way.
And wish, hope, trust know that you do the same.