I don't try to be
but I often get told I'm a mystery in love
no one can tell what I'm thinking
or how I truly feel until I say it
It might be because I love differently
I love in the silences between your heartbeats
and the sights when your back is turned
and often I fear that you don't love me
you love the mystery of me
you're not in love with me
you're intrigued
and truly I'm not that interesting
but I also am
above the mystery that comes with the girl
who wears her heart hidden in her sleeve
is a girl who enjoys the mundane Sunday afternoons
binge-eating with Netflix in the background
sitting in comfortable silences
eyes focused directly on the ceiling above
and below the mystique of the woman
whose facial expressions you decode like hieroglyphics
is a woman who screams at the top of her lungs on Friday nights,
passionately drawn into some debate with her friends
or along to some song you never even knew she liked
cackling deviously along with the crowd
and even in between them
alongside the girl who can make friends with anyone in ten minutes
is a woman who will cuss and yell and say hurtful things
hoping they hit their mark
and sometimes it's not even in retaliation
but you don't love her
you love the girl you need to figure out through context clues
and hints you created for yourself
you love the Rubik's cube that keeps your hands and your mind occupied
and the Grand staircase that keeps you running around trying to find your destination
you love the mystery of me so much
I fear that if I gradually peeled back my layers to show to you
you'll close your eyes and refuse to see
because what could you love about me
without the mystery
