An Incomplete Theory

I have a theory about you. It isn't finished. Mostly because every time I think I've reached a conclusion, You quietly wander somewhere my assumptions haven't learned to follow. I used to think silence belonged to people who had something to hide. Then I met the sort of silence that seems perfectly content to reveal itself one careful sentence at a time. Yours doesn't feel like the lack of something. It feels... chosen As though you've discovered that words become more valuable when they no longer have to compete with one another. I've caught myself wondering what you're like when no one is asking anything of you. Whether your laugh arrives all at once... Or whether it appears the same way the rest of you does. Unhurried. As though even joy prefers your pace.. It's an odd thing to wonder. Odder still to realize the question has returned often enough to feel familiar. I suppose that's the flaw in my theory. It assumed people become interesting because they reveal extraordinary things about themselves. You haven't. You've simply continued being unmistakably yourself... And somehow that has proven far more compelling. Which leaves me with one rather inconvenient conclusion. Perhaps we spend too much of our lives looking for people who know how to be noticed... And not nearly enough looking for the ones who never needed to. I'm still not certain about my theory. But I have become suspicious that every conversation with you doesn't answer it. It simply persuades me to ask better questions. And for reasons I'm not entirely prepared to examine... I've stopped hoping to finish the theory. Some people aren't meant to be understood all at once. They're meant to be returned to. I suspect... that's what I've been doing all along. Going to start introducing myself one poem at a time If you enjoy it great, if not just keep scrolling. (edited)