When I look at you

When I look at people’s faces, I wonder about many things.

Are they happy? for instance.

I wonder about the pain they must hide and its reasons.

I search for clues as I dive into their eyes.

What is it that makes them grin? , and what do they hate most?

They speak, and I pick up each gesture as a tiny piece of their existence.

I do my best not to miss any so that I have a chance to know.

I want to know.

Why do they stress once talking about (insert here)?

Why do they hold the smile sneaking to invade the face after remembering something?

Why do they blush when a certain subject is brought up?

Why do shades of sadness run across their eyes when others talk about their wound's blade?

Why do they shrink in a corner and enjoy the sheltering loneliness provides?

I wonder and enjoy guessing.

To see simple signals like the laugh hidden by the useful hand for insecurities and the childish enthusiasm for strength,

I look at people.

I can't describe their faces if asked.

I don’t remember the shape, the eyes, the skin colour.

I am more likely to describe how their faces act when worried, happy or mad.

I am not aware of what this is. Is it a virtue or a curse?

I want to know the lies they have told and must now ignore, the scenes they saw and had to erase, the dears they lost.

I want to know the stories behind their signatures regardless if deep or random.

What is it that is their’s and nobody else's?

I don’t notice people's gaps to finger point them.

I don’t notice their strengths to weaken them.

I do it to better chose words, to comfort, to avoid waking the aching, Simply, to get fascinated by the wonder each one of us is.