Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

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...

I don't see her as often as I would like to - and it's obvious to everyone that I would very much like to. Or  at least everyone but her. Maybe she's oblivious, who knows? She knows. And I would like to know what she knows and if what she knows is remotely related to me. I want to know if she knows I exist - am I a presence in her presence, as present as my thoughts just formed? Regardless of this knowledge - whether I have it or not - I will make every seeming inconsequential effort to fuel the barest hint of her interest in me as much as there is my interest in her. And when I have fanned the flames of attraction, I can bask in its warmth and hope to work a love tried and true and divinely given. But then, I don't see her often. 'Til this obstacle has been breached, I will hold my romantic notions. 12/6/13 ~~~~~~~~~~~ One from the past year. Cheers!

Maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe the fact you would've chosen me had you been completely free wasn't fact at all - just presumption: me being excessively stubborn, even though it's been clearly said in not-so-bold letters and symbols,                  words and sentences, that I just have no chance... right now. And that one-two punch of "right now"                  drives me up the wall so hard that people have resorted to calling my car                                      "Spiderman". The unfortunate truth being that I'm not so amazing, in comparison to others... maybe. I was so sure what to do had you plainly said "no". I was definitely sure what to do                  a couple steps in, had you said "yes". But the reality is not like that. ...

You're not a book: I don't need to read every one of your signals and wonder what my analysis is when I reach the end. When I push, you either bend or break and I'm left with specks of my once-affectionate, now-broken heart. Of course, that wasn't my intention. Is it ever? I just wanted                           to open up again, let the camera out and take my shot;               let the photograph develop alongside this God-given relationship. You're not a frappuccino                  or a cup of latte that I have to decide between before I can sit back and drink                           in relative peace. But I'll take both; the cashier keeps the change and I'll be better off with both sides of you. I want to know everything about you, so I'll keep ask...

She fills the canvas of most thoughts better  than pages filled with poet's words: a dash of laughter and shining smile, eyes that rival every star in the firmament, hair that frames like the clearest night, and countless more details only so much words can hope to define. Yet the temptation to forge word after word to make real all these painted thoughts of her lends chase to every supposed relevant term just to accompany the next and the next and the next... She is a masterpiece, God's handiwork, and all one can do is still the pen, stand in awe of the perfect imperfections. Oh, the temptation to carry on with more and even more words! But one must be content or else hazard ruining God's artistry with arbitrary expectations. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I have no words to accompany this piece. Enjoy it! Cheers!

I haven't had the time to ask you what you meant. If it was all meant for nothing, or the scores of conflict were somehow lost along the sides of road instead. You hang your head like guilt wrapped around your fragile neck. Somewhere we forget to laugh and yet we stand on subtle steps found. Tears like stone, peter out 'til the clouds smile on us. A bit more quiet now. But the folds of blanket left remind me of the cold that kept us, held us, 'til the time comes to ask what was meant, after all. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I'm aware I haven't written anything in a few months, but considering my work with a small university orchestra, I've been kept very busy. Hope you enjoy it!

Her mind was reeling, in a state of retropulsion, as though stepping - no, leaping  back would save her from dwelling on the implications of what just happened. The enemy - so-called -             called for truce,      even friendship. She has known him these past three years and not once has he made any indication of backing down. His sense of pride, like a wall, didn't allow the very idea to enter through the gates. And yet now, when she chances upon him in the streets, all she sees on his face is bewilderment,              even confusion. When he chances upon her,                        his eyes fill with anger - but does she see a hint of embarrassment, dancing in the corners? Her curiosity is getting the better of her -                     she demands him, upon...