Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

You are not an afterthought. You are an undercurrent that flows through my conscious musings, the only cloud in the sky of my mind that holds hopeful rain. You are a spark that ignites the fireflies in this dim lighted café, safe in the warm embrace of your flushed, flickering smile. My ears prick at the sound of your voice, a pleasant noise that soon drowns out the cacophony around me. I see your face, framed by the rays of sun running through the spots of leafy green forest shade. Your fae form is soft, floating along bubbling streams. I’m in need of you, as fire needs fuel to feed flames. Dusk is lightly painted by your fancy, a humble servant on bended knee to knowing whimsy. We whisper against crisp air, recalling memories made in innocence and naivety, giving them better names to hide from posterity. There is no room for derision from unwanted opposition in this moment we claim in the name of weekend pillow-talks ...

The ink lies on still paper. One follows the markings and finds the shallow depth of its message. A cold, uncaring, numb apathy envelops every lightly etched page. Age matters little to the messenger. There is silence, a blanket to chill an afternoon of simple warmth. Emaciated arms, as ice, reach the heart, grips it with unfeeling vice, ripping it apart. The sun has left; the room is dark. Its weight bears down and immobilizes the place from a sense of space or time. Time struggles to crawl. It falls time and again, lifeless eyes staring into its futile attempts at empathy.               Breaths are raspy bed-fellows clamoring for proper position. It is too crowded in this room. Steps, thunder on hard, wooden floors, venture from home and into sparse-lit streets. The mind wanders down cold memories and distant intimacies; soon finds itself at an open door. Inside are glimpses of starlight and simple wonder. The message i...

He sleeps, desiring to chase frail dreams. Frail, for he dreams lofty, romantic scenes                   of him and her. He is uncertain of the future as he pursues her in earnest. Interest burns as languid embers         seated in his stone heart. He dares to yearn to be a part of her life. Strives and strives, does he, as days, weeks, and months crawl by. Sighs greet the morning as he wakes. She writes out dormant thoughts, prodded by sharp flaming touches of love. Love is an uncertain term that squirms and squeals in strange array from ink barely etched on paper.            She has never truly loved. What she knows passes for shadows of true affection found on holy ground, of God's great passion for all of man. She sees mere specters of the care that kisses the lives of loving, aging couples. Her brow furrows in concern: has she yet found such a love? Is what she h...