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...

She sits across, arms folded as reserved guards on a quiet night. The warm yellow candle lights bathe her                 in enduring sunset. She offers time as a glass; conversation pours and fills it. Dinner displays itself, prayers offered, an incense climbing to God's throne.             Alone in a sea of revelers, they wonder what the future offers in a dying world, a twisted kingdom. She deplores the manners lost to lust, like raving wolves, and garish self-interest. "We are the makers of manners",                       replies he in dreadful earnest, steely, warm eyes hardened with resolve. They smile as night burns auburn. They smile, though torches crackle, holding the heavy weight            of encroaching darkness, clawed by unkind eyes that despise           pure light and ju...

Dust gathers with the dawn. Eyes adjust to welcome light. Night seems a fading memory that repeats time and time again - here at once, and at once is gone. He remembers her most during warm, doting dusk. Memories shared float through his mind at all hours, but finds her occupied in his thoughts as night invites the starlight to host every ephemeral evening. Night breaks as mellow sunlight streams through the cracks of horizon. She runs fingers through her rivers of jet black hair. She stares at her morning tinged silhouette, curious how he fares so many miles - whole worlds - away. Is he okay, in every sense of the minuscule word? The lax air of day envelops her as she writes heartfelt music, which tugs, tears, and ties us down in a bundled mess, unable to cope with the notes of musical articulation. He must confess, last he heard her musical canvas, he saw the firmament bend down, sparkling at each sound. He felt it was love. She knew it was emotio...

Tame were her words, aimed at the empty, cold air. Fading rage replaced with despair, she stays in place, unable to shake the aches out like one shakes hair. There is a soreness in her heart, where she can't place proper thought like pins on a wear-worn map. She ventures to curse as she ought, but it merits nothing. She reasons this must be her lot in life, yet hopes at one point                          that she will snap. Then, she can flounder as much as                       she so desires. The dim fire that fuels and tires her continues to burn within borders                                 that corner her heart.                            She stops and starts        with every...

Time has folded on itself, every step I take further into moss-covered, cobbled streets and surrounded by sun-bricked suites housing minute circles of education. I stop to breathe before the waves of nostalgia surge over me, threatening violence. Shaking, nearly shivering, I venture forward, unfamiliar faces overlapped by familiar thoughts. Memories trigger, my footsteps on timeless landmines. I find time has been most unkind to my memory. Emerging unscathed, though certainly fazed, my eyes continue to wander. Should I wonder any longer that all is the same, yet so very different? All is an ephemeral carnival of blurred reminiscence. Opportunities lost, mistakes cemented by foolish character, childish rashness burning countless bridges out of fear of persecution, only to gain sure tribulation on the soul. How much searching of my frail soul, did I go? Knowing this soul of mine could die, I sought redemption in Christ. And now, after a perfect number of...