Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

Has the novelty worn off? Has the flame of attraction and passion burnt out,                                   dimmed by the dull blanket                                   of routine? Has the novelty worn off? How could it,                       when I'm fine with the way we've been doing things? Has the novelty worn off? Or has it been replaced by something else,                        an itch to see things change for far better than what we have now? Has the novelty worn off? Do I really want more of the same? Maybe it's time I accept the change that's coming around. Maybe there's less now,                   ...

I write my pains as poetry - mostly to hide the fact I'm feeling the loneliness in your silence. Ironic, then, that others, when they chance upon the lines and verse, find solace: "I'm exceedingly glad I'm not the only one", they say. Well I'm certainly not. Glad, that is. How can I find comfort in the fact that others feel the same? I see subtle signs, and it takes all I have not to call you out on it. I don't want to call you out on it. I just want things to change for the better, not for the worse. Not knowing is breaking me: I run all the possible reasons in my head fast enough to send my heart to cardiac arrest. I'm feeling the distance and I can't tell if it's because I'm shaking and terrified of what it means or if I'm reacting to the possibility that this was never meant to be after all. But what I'm writing is poetry - for all you know, this is all just fiction for you to feed your eyes...

I fight for your affections: every smile is a battle won, your peals of laughter a victory song, the simplest words uttered, a vital supply to the battlefield of romance. I'm unclear of your expectations of me -                                                              yet I fight. I fight - and whether they are the demons of doubt and uncertainty or the complexity of a very real adversary, I will make inch to grudging inch and hold a mile to your guarded heart. Not that I seek to destroy the walls that keep your affections safe, only that I am granted a chance to implore you to open the gate. It doesn't matter how many days it will take - patience is attrition taking on weeks, months and years                            in simple steps of one...

She agitates ink to passionate poetry: a smile and a slight tilt of her head                             shake violently a desire to write romantically 'til every drop of ink has been robbed clean off. Her eyes demand dedication on every page of the flyleaf of every journal filled with sentimental wordings only one so love-struck can ever bother          to immortalize with ink. She holds hostage my heart with every laugh she emits from her soul -       every note a chime of bells that send down shivers                 though winter has yet            to visit this time of year. And it visits when she draws near. Her fingers touch the tip of my shoulders and I feel every bit of warmth         from her warm-hearted soul.         How can I thin...