Quite a picture of a happy woman ... in love ... or falling in love perhaps - two rows across me. Her earphones are plugged to her ears, but she is listening to no song. She is busy; typing messages - perhaps whatsapp!. Someone is teasing her ... must be quite adept at it. It has to be a boy ... not yet her boyfriend. Her smile ... her blushes ... are giving away the truths hidden in their secret flirtations.

She has to wrack her wits ... she must win this war of words. She purses her lips and her cheeks cave into a lovely dimple .... that flattered glitter in her eyes has enough for a novel to begin. She is determined to reply to this message and is scanning the lounge through the corner of her eyes as if we have a cue to offer. Her head tilts and a strand of hair falls across her temple curling in a single curve from her thick eye brows to her lips, presently secured between a thoughtful bite of her teeth.

The dimples are back again ... and her smile tells me that she finally has won this conversation ... and my mind tells me that while the war of words is her to win ... she has pleasurably lost the battle of hearts.

Do you see that rose in my garden? That strange beautiful rose? The one that blossoms in silence?

Oh! She's beautiful isn't she? So intensely beautiful, so silently intensely beautiful!

So, quiet, be quiet, quieter still - lest she withers at our utterances.
And move away, lets move farther away, slowly, a step at a time, lets move away.

Ah! That strange beautiful rose in my garden.

I think "she is a stranger". I hope it is "she".
Strangers we are, but strangers are we?

We both long for our touch to feel some one else's
And our moans to drool out of another pair of lips
We long to give what we crave for our senses
Two wet minds lost in the hips

Two lonely bodies and oceans between
We feel each other untouched unseen
Two waves of the same sea crashing on shores afar
Two lonely souls joined by the stars

She was a stranger. I hope it was "she".
Strangers we were, but strangers were we?

The evening is mine, and yet not.
A melody across the wall, born on the strings of a guitar
Is eating into my silence. Yes!

My violin waits.

Sometimes it takes a bit of silence, a pinch of patience;
To hear it out before you let it out.
It is music - alright - but it doesn't sing the notes my violin longs for.

The guitar breaks into arpeggios and a cascade of notes fill me up;
but the bass feels more like an unwanted knock on the doors of my ears -
An intrusion, A stabbing knife ripping through the canvas of silence.
I know! I know, it is a beautiful melody, but it is not mine -
I haven't felt my violin through the day and I long for my solitary rendezvous;
To hear my violin sing, nay, talk to me.

My violin waits.

How strange that I should ever cringe at music,
And yet, I am unable to contain the welling frustration -
A desire to drown whatever is coming piercing through the walls into my room
To decimate it till nothing of it remains - not a spec, not a whisper
Till all is Silent

My violin still waits.

There's an ache in my body
No its not pain
- The bindings imposed by a lazy morning
Ah! All efforts are vain

I hate clumsy
But I cant deny its pleasures
It's a sinful indulgence
Saturday morning leisures

I cling on to my sleep
Like ***** lovers embrace
Still tasting my dreams
As its dark sweetness slowly pales

The light waits on my window
Its whispers make the curtains glow
Ah! but I have a "waking up" to do
Must start steady and go slow