He tells me I talk in the language of silence; that he hears everything I say with just a look. It's true; I don't have to say a word. He knows when I'm angry; when I'm guilty; when I am sad. He says he's studied me.
I too know the language of silence; not from a look, but from his touch. Late at night, when we are man to man, his hand lays on top of mine. A squeeze, a grip, or a pat: a quiet conversation. I hear him loud and clear. That hand says: I love you completely.
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