The body is the lie. The woman who speaks to you face-to-face
with a carefully controlled flex of muscles around the eyes
and the upward curve of just one side of her mouth
that tells you "I'm amused at whatevever joke you just told"

The polite look of interest that cleverly morphs into concern
with a downward press of eyebrows
and a slight lean forward accompanied by a sympathetic noise
they are all walls that look like doors

You would know it for the avatar it is
if you realized she never reaches out a hand,
never bridges that social distance to touch you
and he muscles relax when she turns away

Those emotions live within her but they live in fear
knowing the danger of showing their face when someone is watching
she's a cipher meant to be read like a book
giving the reader only what she's carefully crafted

She thinks the written word holds the key. Those ephemeral interactions
the electronic conversations where a delay in reply says "I'm a bit busy"
but is really meant to mask a struggle to reign in a certain depth of feeling
or hide the need for contact

The written word is better, more real, much safer to give away
there are no consequences to emotions laid bare in lines and bars and soft curves
well, only consequences for her, tightly wrapped inside the frame of language
reaching out without being seen