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Once again, it was a brisk, fall morning, and she felt alive again. Only this time, it was different. The spark was late this year. The air didn't start to breath with her until it was nearly October. Nonetheless, she enjoyed the prolonged warmth that came with the extra days of a waning summer. However, on this particular day, she ran down her front porch steps and headed to her morning class. She rounded a corner and saw the fish-bowl school building sitting atop a nice, grassy knoll.  She tried to think of a more descriptive word for the hill than 'nice', but decided against it.
     "It's perfectly alright to call it 'nice', because I've already called it a 'knoll' and that's eloquent enough. We can't be too flowery with our language now, can we?"
She wasn't sure who she was talking to because she was alone. It didn't matter though, because just then, she looked down and saw the chilled fall breeze dance around her loose, purple shirt. She felt very bohemian.
Later that night, she sat in the new chair at the kitchen table, again by herself. She thought about how she preferred her old, busted chair, and a man she had seen who had two prosthetic legs.
     "That must be what it's like to not have words." she thought quietly to herself, "You must just feel broken inside, with no way to fix it because you don't have words."
She was saddened by the thought, and felt sorry for the broken man and the crippled chair. She didn't know if she would see the chair again, or where it went; probably to the dump, and there was nothing that poor chair could do about it. She knew she'd see the man again. She thought the next time she did, she might ask him how he'd feel if he didn't have words.

In No Particular Order, The Top 10 Most Potentially Romantic Lines by Jessie Forbes

"I am, at this point in time, a dreamer trying very very hard to be a realist."

"I am still raw, and rejection would be a bit too much for my poor, young, foolish heart to handle."

"I’ve never been good with goodbyes, and this one is particularly difficult since I really don’t know if I should say it at all. But maybe, by some miracle, I’ll never have to."

"I wish you joy, and if there is anything I can ever do to help you find it, please tell me."

"I am tired of riddles and it would be an incredible relief to simply know that there is some part of me that fits in with you."

"You make me laugh. You make me smile, and you make me feel worthwhile. More than that, you make me feel comfortable being alive in the same way the sunshine does when you step out of a cold church building and into the afternoon light."

"You have worked your way into the corners of my soul, but I’m still trying not to give you my heart. I must say, it's proving very difficult"

"There's something beautiful about trying to listen to your head when you know all along your heart will win out. It's a paradox really, because the logical thing to do would be to not waste time with reason in matters such as love."

"The entire human imagination couldn't explain how I feel. It's a bit dangerous, really."

and last, but certainly not least,

"You warm my heart like a Snuggie on a cold winter's night." 

A Love Sonnet of Sorts

Which came first, the cookie or the cake?

Be careful of where you give your
Love, because I am enchanted by
The Chase, and you may find yourself experiencing
"The Alliterative Morte D'Arthur",
and that would be a real shame
if you thought it a waste of time.

Dialogue

What do you say when you're at a loss for words; when the words are stuck, "like honey on bread"? (That's for you, Stevens)
What does it mean when the words that come out in English mean nothing at all, and the easy ones in Spanish mean the most?
"¿Cómo estás?" 
How are you? How. Are. You. How are you in your own existential state right now? You exist, you live, breathe, talk, laugh, cry, shout, roll your eyes, etc. How is it?
When you walk down the street under the brilliant sun, how are you?
When you sit on a park bench and throw away your brown, jagged apple core, how are you?
When you heave a sigh, and feeling chagrined, put your head in your hands, how are you?
When you stare at the broad convexity of the T.V. screen, and let your mind be sucked away for a brief hour, just to relax, how are you?
When you are folding laundry and the house is quiet, and you say to yourself, "Self, boring is nice", how are you?
When you've got a bizarre thought, and you feel so satisfied writing it down, how are you?
When your mind is full, your heart is open, and your eyes are too, how are you?

I know how I am when I sit in my living room in the small hours of the night, and my soul feels thinner and folded like the paper pinwheels above the front window. Pinwheels are noncommittal. Each spoke is gently rounded in half, without a crease, making nothing about the pinwheel permanent.
Interestingly enough, it's that indecisiveness that makes the pinwheel spin.

I'm like this pinwheel. My loss for words is like that gentle curve of the paper. If I express something, the paper creases, and the spinning stops. Sometimes limbo is a nice place to be. There is hope in the in-between, like there is wind in the looped paper, and it keeps the momentum going.
The sad part is, you'll never know, in limbo. What was I going to say? You'll never know, because then the pinwheel won't spin and I can't say meaningless English words to you again, and meaningless words are better than no words at all, right? Words with no substance are at least words, and maybe one day I can find the right words and string them together in just the right way, that they'll shake the foundation of the mountain you stand on, and topple it into the coursing river of reaction below. If I do that though, there is no way of knowing whether or not you will climb out, sopping wet, on to my bank of the river.

That's why English is hard. When you talk, what does it mean? Words are words are words are words are words and

dialogue can be cheap.

Fourth Person

"The better option." she quipped as she smothered French cheese on her baguette. In all her self confidence and nonchalance, she didn't quite know how much she would be missed in the coming weeks and months.

"Just friends." he confessed as he tossed a dart that buried itself in her chest, just off to the left of her heart. It wasn't enough to kill her, but the doctor said it would take 8 weeks to heal.

"I was just basking in all the genius." She remarked to her friends as she laid in the greener grass across Walden pond.

There's another character here; the recipient all of these statements.  With hands in her skirt pockets, she stands quiet in a lost road with hunched shoulders. What hurts her more than these words and the scenarios they are packaged in, is knowing that La Vita e Bella. She's a Swede writing Spanish poetry, and she never did quite have a chance in Italy. That leaves her with a heavy weight in her stomach and a dry taste in her mouth, because having a hope disappointed when there really was no hope to begin with is the hardest thing of all.

Now, she is simply stitching up the hurt and miss inside her. She shows her pain in the form of cheap poetry, so common it's as ubiquitous as a stubbed toe. She fills in the holes of her heart with streaks of rain against the smouldering sunset, making the sky look like inverted light rays.  Slowly, she straightens her spine and raises her chin an inch to look up from the dusty path on which she stands.

She looks up to find that God is standing there in front of her. Their eyes meet and a small smile starts on her face that almost reaches her eyes. She parts her dry lips and a whisper escapes them.

"Glory."

Shout Out to Shug. 

A Sunday Kind of Thought

I have never truly desired fame or glory. I only long to do good.
I don't want the praise and adoration of "the world", because how can you measure an entire planet's approval? And besides, you'll never get it.

I simply want to rest on a Sunday and feel closer to God than I did on Monday.

The Honest Prayer of a Moth

"There never was a moment in my life when I felt so in the Presence as I do now. I feel as if the Almighty were so real, and so near, that I could reach out and touch Him, as I could this wonderful work of His if I dared. I feel like saying to Him, 'To the extent of my brain power I realize Your presence, and all it is in me to comprehend of Your power. Help me to learn, even this late, the lessons of Your wonderful creations. Help me to unshackle and expand my soul to the fullest realization of Your wonders. Almighty God, make me bigger, make me broader!'"    -Kate Comstock, The Girl of the Limberlost,  by Gene Stratton Porter