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the tree fellThe room is quiet.
No, it isn't quiet.
It is full, just discreetly so.
The air is saturated with possibility:
the (potential) energy of a seed in a new abode.
up swishes the conductor's wand,
and up snap the heads of his group,
and soft, velvety notes begin,
The sound climbs,
and it flies,
Now bells come in,
ring striking tones,
and suddenly it's snowing,
it's Christmas in July.
The movement is everything,
then fall then rise,
like a musical breath.
But the heartbeat that drives
it slows down to a
and the dancing becomes
footsteps once more.
Melancholy grips the partition, sounds
become mournful and soft
cries in soprano-tenor voices
as the players look up and find
nothing less missing than themselves.
It's nothing"Whatcha doing?" you ask over my shoulder.
I flip the notebook shut, masking the beating of my heart with the abrupt act. Somehow, it works. I don't know how you can manage to not hear the racket that silly organ of mine is making. It's so loud that I'm convinced it can be heard through the floor of the room. I slowly let out the breath you've made me hold.
"Nothing," I mumble.
My mind races. How much did you see? Those lines about your "beautiful blue eyes"did those reach their subject? You just stand there, smiling with that coy grin of yours, the one that makes me want to simultaneously kiss you and bash your teeth in. I want to melt away, melt into those arms, melt into the ceramic floor beneath me.
Oh, stop talking, please just go away. This isn't ready, not yet, give me more time. I know this has been a work in progress for a long time, but you can't know that, can you? You can't be impatient with something I've hidden so well (haven't I?), it won't hurt
19-08-2011Sometimes, when you stay up far too late into the night, just before the dawn eases itself through your window, you hear something not unlike music radiate through the walls of your room. It goes something like this:
You hear the soft murmurs compelling you to do... What? You stretch an ear, trying to comprehend it, but it remains just out of grasp. It starts slow, deliberate, strings plucked, chords struck. You find yourself, though curious, oddly at peace.
You wonder what you are supposed to hear, what is being said in wisps and whispers. It swells; it ebbs. You unconsciously begin following the pattern with your fingers, marking the beat onto the parchment of your flesh, maybe you will remember it that way, once light and clarity and reason catch up to the fleeing night. But you know that you will not, that this is a dream, that it does not want to be remembered; but then, what? Why?
You picture your thoughts so intensely, willing an answer to come with all the might you can muster,
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