I always have so much to say to you, volumes of words I need you to hear, when we're apart. Of course, when you're near, I can't think of one of those words, only useless articles and pronouns, that, when strung together, make no sense.
But when you're not here, I can write novels and essays on what I want to tell you. Everything is laid out in my head, everything is logical. I have answers and explanations to every question or thought you or I have. It's frustrating to lose that - illogical and frustrating. There's no reason for all of those thoughts, so lovingly drawn out of my mind, to go to waste in such a way; to have them turn up as soon as you leave. I could call you, though if I do, each of those thoughts could be seen as irrelevant, or actually are irrelevant.
When I bring this up, however, there is only the singular sentence, "Just breathe, the rhythm lets me know what you want to tell me."
I ask for explanation, and although I only get a small smile, I know it's true. You know exactly what subtle differences in rhythm mean; which one means I'm anxious, or excited, or content, or sad. And I think that is a special talent only those closest to a person can have.