quarta-feira, 30 de maio de 2012

My story (orginally known as no words for Orlando)


Rosalind sat at her desk beside the open window of her bedroom. Beyond the window was the garden. It was May and the garden was in full bloom.

On the corner of her desk was a clear glass vase with light pink peonies she had picked that morning. Beside the vase right in/on the middle of her desk slightly tilted to the left was a sheet of paper and a pen. The paper lay blank. The pen lay unmoved, untouched.

Rosalind’s gaze was absent minded and yet fixed on the page.

Today she felt uninspired. Her mind was as blank as the page. Perhaps she shouldn’t try to write at all. Maybe today the page was supposed to lay blank.

The screen the trees made reminded her of a day back in preschool. Back then she didn’t know how to read or write.

Back then her greatest achievement was when she learnt to tie a knot. It was one of those things she could never go back on but that she didn’t want to. The feeling of accomplishment had been one of the greatest she would ever experience. Maybe that was why she wanted to write this story so badly, to feel the sense of accomplishment once she had finished it.

In the hopes of finding inspiration she did the unthinkable and opened her diary.

No, there was nothing worth basing a story on only idle complaints about things and people. Maybe she was being pessimistic but today no words came to mind.

Rosalind placed the pen and paper into her desk drawer, locked her diary and left the room.

***********************

Claira sat at her desk behind it was a window and beyond the window there it was, her secret garden. No one knew of its existence except her.

When her parents had bought the old home they had let her pick a room from any of the twelve rooms in the left wing. She had picked this room because of what was now her secret garden.

Back then it had been the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place anyone could imagine.  The high walls which shut it in had been covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses which were so thick that they matted together.

All the ground had been covered with a grass of a wintery brown and out of it had grown clumps of bushes which had later proved to be rose bushes. There had been a number of standard roses which spread their branches so far that they looked like small trees. There had been other trees in the garden, and there had been the climbing roses which she had allowed to run over the trees.                                                                                                            Claira thought it must be different from other gardens.                                 

*****************

On Monday Rosalind’s friend Claire came over and read what Rosalind had written.

Claire looked confused as she read and asked.

‘Do you have The Secret Garden by Frances Burnett?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Can I see it?’

‘Sure’

Rosalind found the book in the study and came back to the living room. Claire took the book and skimmed the pages.

‘Ah, ah!  Just as I thought, look here on page 79. What you’ve written is nearly identical.’

Rosalind took the book and read. Her friend was right.

‘This is horrible. It’s like I’ve plagiarized.’

‘Of course not, you were just inspired by it. It happens to the best of us.’

‘No. This is worse than terrible.’

‘Come on Rosalind don’t beat yourself up. It’s not like you were going to publish it and then be sued. It’s just one story and you’ve barely even started. Just maybe avoid writing something about gardens.’

Rosalind smiled, and then laughed.

‘I guess you’re right. No more gardens.’

‘Exactly and like Gilbert says to Anne in the movie ‘Well, if you want my opinion, Miss Shirley, I'd write about places I knew something of and people that spoke everyday English.’’

Rosalind smiled once again. Her friend was right in choosing that quote plus it came from Anne of Green Gables one of her all time favorite movies.

So, Rosalind took up her pen once more and tried to write a story.

******************************

Two years ago they had moved here. It was suppose to be their last move her father had promised. Penny hadn’t felt too sure. All her life they had moved from one place to the next not staying for more than four years at a time, but that was the life of a diplomat and his family. A life Penny did not want for herself, though she was grateful for the many experiences it had permitted her. Some people have a gypsy spirit, they are nomads at heart, and others need a soil for their roots. Penny needed a soil for her roots and this one was the one she had chosen. She could no longer travel the world. Her search for where she belonged was over.

****************************

Rosalind re-read what she had written. It was okay but there was something missing and she didn’t quit know what it was. So she took out a new sheet of paper and tried to re-write it.

******************************

This year she was finishing her second year of college. The rest of her life they told her. Naturally it was starting to feel like a cliché but that didn’t bother her. Some things were comforting to hear over and over again. It was almost as if people were trying to convince themselves more than her that this was true especially since they had said that every year since she graduated high school.

In her mind it made complete sense, even after she painstakingly questioned herself about it. Here she had family, roots and an underlying sense of well being and belonging. Belonging, something she had too often struggled to feel whether it was at new schools, with her friends, or in her family. Now the pieces of her puzzle seemed to fit, the next natural thing would be to enjoy it.

****************************************

A few days later Rosalind tried to write something completely different.

*******************************

The first time she had seen him was two years ago. Back then he seemed to glow with an aura and walk like a roman god. His quiet manner his soft gaze, His smile. It was nothing new to her. The right smile on the right guy could make her heart go pitter-patter. It was as if the brightness of the smile made her blind to everything else. What she wanted was a kind guy with a wonderful smile, because a smile made her heart melt. Naturally her romantic notions were all to be found in her collection of romance novels to which she clung as much as to her bible because in a way they were parables, she believed, that would lead her to romance. Due to lack of experience in anything amorous she found herself googling the subject constantly and thinking about him all the time. Most girls liked ‘talk, dark and handsome’ while she liked ‘tall, kind and smile.’ So it was naturally no surprise that she had crushed on him.

At the beginning she never even looked at him. He was always curious and curiosity best suited puppies and not so much gown men. So it was only four years later that she had actually looked at him for the first time. Since then she could barely look at other guys.

He had become the god of her crush world, and being monotheistic in real life she could only have one god in the land of crushing.

To normal people he might just be a normal average guy but to her he was THE guy.

***************************

In the last few months Rosalind had become tormented with thoughts about a guy. In the last two months she had dreamt of him almost non-stop. Every time she saw him she ran to her friends and ended up laughing endlessly as if she had lost her mind, which she honestly believed. He was just a guy. He wasn’t even that good looking or at least she hadn’t thought so two years ago. In utter confusion she asked everyone about ‘boys’ even asking her four, five and six year old cousins. Their conclusion was simple ‘if you like a boy tell him’.

After writing her little excerpt based on him made her up her mind. She would finally find the courage to speak to him.

On Monday she was still full of resolve to do this but as she saw him her heart started to beat faster, and she turned 180 degrees.

On Wednesday ‘I’ll do it.’ She told herself.

She was but three feet away from him when she suddenly fainted. As she regained her senses she noticed she was in his arms and fainted once again, this time as she opened her eyes her friend Joanna held her arm.

‘What happened?’ asked Joanna.

Rosalind gave her a look.

‘Him? Really? Oh my Gosh Rosa. That’s so cute.’

The next week came along but this time she held out a box to him with cookies and opened her mouth but no words came out. She tried to make a sound, any sound. Nothing.

Joanna came to the rescue. She took Rosalind’s arm and said ‘Orlando would you like a cookie?’

‘Thanks’ he said with a smile as he grabbed one.

‘Rosalind made them herself.’

‘There’re very good’ said Orlando smiling.

Rosalind stood smiling.

‘Well we should go see if Claire wants any shouldn’t we Rosa?’ said Joanna forcing her to turn.

The next week Rosalind went to a party after being dragged by Claire and Joanna. At the party she found herself sitting in a corner trying to write a story. One never knew when inspiration would hit. Maybe it was the 1960’s theme but she didn’t quit know.

Suddenly her heart went piter patter , piter patter.

‘Had she not moved on and put this silliness aside? She thought for there he was.

And here she was being a party pooper because instead of enjoying this moment she had been hit with inspiration to write. If only he would shut up! Then, her heart beat would be normal and she could finally write something worth being read.

Piter Patter, piter patter. Behind she could hear his laughter. His face appeared in her mind though her eyes were burning into the sheet of paper in front of her.

He stopped speaking so she glanced. He was still there. Now she hoped he would speak though she kept to herself writing away. She looked once more. How handsome he was in his suit, grey pants, white shirt, navy blazer and tie.’ She thought.

When the party was over she saw him leave. He didn’t notice. She felt slightly sad but not completely since in her hands she had the story.

The next day Rosalind went to Joanna’s house.

The girls sat in Joanna’s room quietly for a few minutes then Rosalind handed her friend the story she had been working on at the party. It was all printed up and tied with a pink ribbon. Underneath the pink ribbon, placed vertically, was a light pink peony.

‘What is this?’ asked Joanna with surprise.

‘It’s my story,’ replied Rosalind with a smile.

 ‘You finished it?’

‘Yes. And you wanna know something? I realized that I could write any other story but it just wouldn’t be mine. It wouldn’t be my story.’

‘What about the romantic stories you tried to write?’

‘I couldn’t keep mixing fiction with reality.’

Joana took the peony and smiled. She then took the ribbon and proceeded to read the story.

***********************

Looking Out

She looked out the window of her aunt’s home. On the horizon the sun was slowly setting over the Tejo River that she loved so much.  She was finally happy. She was finally home. Her mind wandered to memories created only hours before; the house she had left, the tears that had unknowingly slipped from her eyes as she parted, the unusually tight hug that her father had given her, the last minute goodbyes from her friends just before she went through security into the international terminal, the moments of hesitation that were diminished upon seeing the triumphant smile on her mother’s face, then the moments of anxiety and ecstasy as she came out of the burrow that was baggage claims and saw most of her family members all waiting for her and her mother at arrivals.

They had all gone to her aunt’s house which was the nearest to the airport to celebrate the long awaited arrival. Yet slowly the cousins with their children had happily dispersed through the Lisbon area to their homes.

Now only the aunts and uncles were left still chatting away in her aunt’s living room, most of who were now grand-parents save for the youngest uncle who had finally become a father.

But suddenly she recalled a picture from her baby album. In the picture her uncle sat on the beach rubbing her hands with sand as she smiled in utter joy and amazement. Beside her uncle was her cousin, a boy of eleven years whose childhood emanated joy. In this picture she was no more than nine months old, the first time that she had been to her mother’s land. She was not sure but that was likely to have been the time in which she had first fallen in love with her mother’s land, the land of the Tejo River, of the navigators, and of Camões.  She knew this love had only grown more and more with each visit. Part of it was the land itself. The other part was her family. The old cliché was true ‘home IS where the heart is’. It had been hard getting to where she was. Many things had impeded her from ever getting her dream, her wish of going to live in her mother’s land.

At first, her father had kept her and her mother from getting her wish. He had wanted to keep things the way they were. He would not allow it. But even he had changed. Sadly at that point her grand-parents had passed on and she had not been ready for a new beginning having only just started high school. Her mother’s work had also been an impediment. Through the grace of God things started happening that would eventually make her dream come true.

Her mother, who had been working since she was sixteen, was tired of the demands of work so she retired. Her mother was also propelled to do this because she had made an ultimatum. ‘I’m going with or without ’she had said. So her mother decided to go with her.

Consequently here she was looking out her aunt’s window knowing that this was just the beginning. Suddenly, she heard a burst of laughter coming from the room beside and was awakened from her thoughts. So slowly taking in a breath of the cool breeze she took one last look out the window. To her left the lights of the Expo 98 site shone with vigour. The brightest were the lights of the Orient Station, then as her eyes moved to her right the Tejo River surrounding the city of Lisbon.

Now, she left the kitchen’s enveloping darkness to join in the warmth of her family’s laughter. Leaving the kitchen illuminated only lightly by the stars and lights of the city as well as the residue of the sun that had basked the scene with its glow.
*****************************************
Rosalind waited as her friend read the story. When Joanna was done she looked up.
‘I know it isn’t much of a story and...’
‘And nothing Rosalind. I love it. I always knew you had it in you but now I have a new challenge for you. I want you to take this to Orlando and have him read it.’
‘Joanna.’
‘You have to separate fiction from reality. He is real.’
That was true. He was real, as real as any other human being but she’d waited this long to give him a cookie surely it would make no difference if she waited a week or two to have him read the story.
Rosalind thought about it. Joanna was right. Orlando would get to know her through her story and she would never have to say a word and maybe just maybe this wasn’t the end but the beginning of a new story.

terça-feira, 29 de maio de 2012

Comme mon coeur dance

Soundtrack to my poem

Oh si tu savais
Comme mon Coeur dance
Et oh la surprise
Comme que quand tu n’es pas las
Que c’est presque tout moche
Mais ai oh é
La vie continue
Comme mon cœur dance
Pour que tu saches que ton sourire joue sur les cléfs de mon piano
Mais tout semble comme si tu t’enfuis de moi

N’ai pas peur
Car je m’éloignerais
si cela te ferais plaisir
je partirais
je irais très loin
je reviendrais jamais
mais si tu veux de moi
même pour un instant
je resterais
Si tu veux de moi

Même comme amie
Je resterais ici
Même si seulement pour te regarder dance
Avec d’autres filles que moi
Je ne me jouirais pas
Mais je ne serais pas malheureuse
Sais-tu que ton sourire fait mon cœur dansé
Et  même si je reste ainsi je serais heureuse

Dé que tu ne m’aise pas
Comme ça tu resteras
Toujours comme un beau rêve.
Et moi ainsi je te mirerais de loin
Sans jalousie
Dans mon petit paradis.

Translation

Oh if you knew
How my heart dances
And oh the surprise
Like when you aren’t there
How almost everything is lame
But ai oh eh
Life goes on
How my heart dances
For you to know that your smile plays on the
Keys of my piano
But everything looks like as if you ran away from me
Don’t be scared
Since I’ll back away
If that  would please you
I would go very far
I would never come back
Yet if you want of me
Even for a moment
I would stay
If you want of me
Even  as a friend
I would stay here
Even if just to watch you dance
With girls other than me
I would not celebrate it
Yet i would not be unhappy
Do you know that your smile makes my heart dance
And even if I stay like this I would be happy
As long as you did not hate me
Like that you would stay
Always like a beautiful dream
And I like this I would watch you from afar
Without jealousy
In my little paradise.

by Melody





segunda-feira, 28 de maio de 2012

Ending part of No words for an Orlando


It was over, and it was too late. Rosalind has finished her story and Orlando now had a girlfriend.

He would never know how she felt, and she would never know if he could have ever seen her in that light. It was all a dream. He was just a dream she had dared to dream. Now she would forever not know his personality, his likes and dislikes.

She could wait for him but might hit it off with his girlfriend and further down the road marry her and never divorce her. Oddly enough this didn’t seem bad since it would mean that he would have found his soul mate and however much it ached her not to have said anything she knew that if he did find his other half there would be no motive to me sad. She might just one day jokingly admit to having had a crush on him but that wouldn’t be for many years.

sábado, 26 de maio de 2012

No words for an Orlando

(Excerpt)



Rosalind sat in a corner at the party trying to write. One never knew when inspiration would hit.

The theme of the party was 1960’s and she had been dragged to the party by her friend Joanne.

Suddenly her heart went piter patter , piter pater.

‘ Had she not moved on and put this silliness aside, believing it honestly and truly with her heart?

And here she was being a party pooper because instead of enjoying this moment she has been hit with inspiration to write. If only he would shut up! Then her heart beat would be normal and she could finally write something worth being read.

Piter Pater, pitter patter. Behind she could hear his laughter. His face appeared in her mind though her eyes were burning into the sheet of paper in front of her.

Her neck burned and suddenly stopped. This was not a time to be writing.

He stopped speaking so she looked. He was still there. Now she hopped he would speak though she kept to herself writing away. She looked once more. How handsome he was in his suit, grey pants, white shirt, navy blazer and tie. ‘ she thought.



No more cookies for now but I won’t stop baking


I baked the cookies

I cleaned the kitchen

I ate the cookies

And waited as the oven cooled

The oven cooled

But still stayed warm

And would not

Completely cool down

Now the oven began

To warm up once again

As if it had a mind of its own

So I made up my mind

To make more cookies

Once again

Because slowly the oven became warmer

And warmer

I rummaged the kitchen to see if I could find

All the ingredients

For the cookies I now had in mind

I searched high

And I searched low

As the heat in the kitchen started to grow

(to be continued?)


quarta-feira, 23 de maio de 2012

Don't cry

I’ll cry at a man’s funeral
I’ll cry if he’s in hospital
I’ll cry if I miss him
Or if he tells me a sad story
I’ll cry if he cries
Just because
I'll cry if i just feel like it too
But I will never cry for a man
And if I have 
it was because I was sleepy
Or perhaps feverish

le pont Mirabeau

Le pont Mirabeau


Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine.
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

L'amour s'en va comme cette eau couranteL'amour s'en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l'Espérance est violente
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Guillaume Apollinaire

Translation

Under Mirabeau Bridge runs the Seine
 And our loves
I must reminded of
Happiness would always come after sorrow
Comes the night the hour rings
Days go by and I live
Hand in hand let us stay face to face
While under
The bridge of our arms go by
Eternal looks the waves so un stretched
Comes the night the hour rings
Days go by and I live
Love goes by like this flowing water
Love goes by
Oh how life is slow
And how hope is so violent
Comes the night the hour rings
Days go by and I live
Days go by and so do weeks
No time passed
Nor do loves come back
Under Mirabeau Bridge runs the Seine
Comes the night the hour rings
Days go by and I live


terça-feira, 22 de maio de 2012

goodbye to cookies

The cookies have been baked

The kitchen has been cleaned

The oven has cooled down

And the cookies eaten



The fun was in the sugar

The fun was in the flour

The fun was in chocolate

Which I ate every hour

The fun was in the butter

In the vanilla too

The brown sugar

Made them nice to chew



The cookies have been put away

The story has been told

We grow very old



The cookie jar is empty

Yet full of hot air

The cookies were eaten

No reason to pull up a chair.



Goodbye to the cookies I ate

Goodbye to them once more

What the hell am i bidding adieu to cookies for?

Yet good bye to them

For my teeth are rotten

And my belly is wide

Old age has grabbed

me like the flowing of the tide.

quinta-feira, 17 de maio de 2012

No Words for an Orlando

Excerpt from No Words for an Orlando

Context: The main character (Rosalind)  is trying to write a story. This is what she writes.  The fact that she has a crush and no words for 'orlando' inevitably  has an effect on her attempt to write her story.  This is what she writes

''The first time she had seen him he seemed to glow with an aura and walk like a roman god. His quiet manner his soft gaze. His smile. It was nothing new to her. The right smile on the right guy could make her heart go pitter-patter. It was as if the brightness of the smile made her blind to everything else. What she wanted was a kind guy with a wonderful smile, because a smile made her heart melt. Naturally her romantic notions were all to be found in her collection of romance novels to which she clung as much as to her bible because in a way they were parables, she believed, that would lead her to romance. Due to lack of experience in anything amorous she found herself googling the subject constantly and thinking about him all the time. Most girls liked ‘talk, dark and handsome’ while she liked ‘tall, kind and smile.’ So it was naturally no surprise that she had crushed on him.

At the beginning she never even looked at him. He was always curious and curiosity best suited puppies and not so much gown men. So it was only four years later that she had actually looked at him for the first time. Since then she could barely look at other guys.
He had become the god of her crush world, and being monotheistic in real life she could only have one god in the land of crushing.

To normal people he might just be a normal average guy but to her he was THE guy.''

No Words For an Orlando

''Yet other things had started to torment her thoughts. They were the thoughts about a guy. In all her life she had had little interest in guys and had only had brief passing crushes. Now this time this crush wouldn’t go away. It was lasting almost over a year and a half, and getting worse as time went by. In the last two months she had dreamt of him almost non-stop only when she didn’t dream was she sure not to see his face. But that was not the worse part. In one of her dreams he had held her hand and kissed her. The next morning she felt nauseous as she recalled the dream. The nausea continued until she saw him a week later and offered him a sugar cookie. The next month was spent in euphoria. Every time she saw him she ran to her friends and ended up laughing endlessly as if she had lost her mind, which she honestly believed. He was just a guy, not an alien or a monster. He wasn’t that good looking or at least she hadn’t thought so two years ago. Around him she felt an urge to run away and yet urge to stay. ‘This thing was so stupid ‘she thought to herself and indeed it was. The stupid thing was that she couldn’t accept that having a crush on this guy was not a bad thing. Out of utter confusion she ask everyone about ‘boys’ even asking her four, five and six year old cousins. Their conclusion was simple ‘if you like a boy tell him’. They also told her how to get a boy-friend. You were supposed to go up to the boy and say ‘hey do you want to be my boy-friend, and if he said ok then you could kiss on the lips.’ Rosalind almost wished she was their age,  not because of kissing a boy on the lips but because things were much more simpler for them. Yet she could admit that simple wasn’t always the most beautiful. Like with a piece of music. If you only had a melody where would the fun be in hearing the subtleness of the harmony? It was harmony that brought colour into the music, at least in the music she liked.
She liked his voice. She strained to hear it, strained to decipher it amid the other baritone voices in the church choir.
On her friends advice she started sending him e-mails. The first one she sent was a chocolate chip cookie recipe. She somehow found the guts to talk to him one day and tried to talk to him from time to time. She realized he was human and rather nice. Thanks to the small chats that were centered on cookies she found herself cured of her feelings. Or rather the extreme side effects such as the profusive laughter and the racing of her heart. Her heart beat still became faster but it did not leap out of her chest like before. Now the feeling when she saw him had become a comforting one instead of euphoric. It felt like a calm had come over her. She found this odd after having suffered so much euphoria during the past two months. When she spoke of him she smiled whole heartedly and when she laughed when talking about him she was able to control her breathing and henceforth control the laughter. She felt perplexed and confused. Did she still like him? She did for she found it hard not to look at other guys without thinking about him. She kept on having dreams where he showed up but now they had grown apart. Always would she glance at him from the side and smile like when she did see him but now in her dreams he didn’t even look at her. Even when he had first appeared in her dreams as part of the church choir he would always glance at her though simply and without meaning. Now he avoided her. She wondered what this meant. Did it predict a time to come when he would indeed avoid her in real life? She didn’t know. After all this progress to speak to him to be kind to him what had come of it? Perhaps a doubtfulness in herself, a constant process of evaluating herself and asking if she was worthy. What was she worthy or not worthy of? Him? She only had to be worthy of herself. And after all just because she was confronting her way of reacting to a crush did not mean she automatically wanted to date her crush. But deep down she did. She wanted just for once know what it was to like a guy and have him like her back. To believe that guys did know how to be romantic without wanting something in return. That they could treat a girl with respect, that she did not have to push away the idea of romance from her life and lock it into the room with the name ‘fiction’.   ''


Exerpt from No Words For an Orlando  by Melody


* The title is an allusion to William Shakespeare's  play called As You Like It.

'All good things come to and End'

'All good things come to an end'

The heart no longer races
my pulse is once again sincronized to life

my mind wonders
only ever so slighlty
only ever so lightly

the poetry is over
finished and gone
but the battle was never won

back to normality
to what a crush should be
a moment of passion and idiocity

the song has been sung
the cards have been layed
the game has been played

I suppose I never jumped
I admit I once ran
but perhaps I folded
too early

I am told to jump
to ask to try
instead I spend all my time wondering why

For now I accept this time of peace
and reflection
as a time of inner inspection

They say say something
do something or you will never know
but right now I need a little peace to grow

I fear regreting not having said a thing
but what should I do
when I don't know if he has a clue

Perhaps neither have I
and that is why I wonder why
now I have played my cards
it is time to see what cards he will play

terça-feira, 15 de maio de 2012

Cookie prince

Prince cookie
You are lookie
That I give you my cookie
Recipie
Since I could sell
What my oven bakes
Instead of giving you my baking tips
But oh cookie prince
I have found cookie courage
Not to shape you with my cookie cutter
For we may both
Be the vessels of very different
Personalities
And not make a decent ice cream sand which.
To you cookie prince
To me the baking princess
Can we please just agree
That it is always nice
To share a cookie

sábado, 12 de maio de 2012

About of Gout

About of Gout

 
(If I had a crush this is something like what it could be)
The way he talks
the way he walks
For those I don't care
I'd much rather know
if the weather be fine or fare
It's not about his stride
or how his smile can be double-wide
I don't really know
what it is
It could be his eyes like summer skies
but i couldn't tell
i'm still hidding in my shell.
So do I notice when he's there?
Yes, cause for some reason i care.
Do I look to see if he came
though clearly I have no aim?
yet what could it be
that which makes me giggly
it can not be his gaite,
his weight?
Though a nice laughter
I suppose
I wonder how my state arose?
For this crush
is turning me to mush
It can not be his height
though as I think
it just might.
Could it be his hair?
No for it I don't really care.
He is nice
but so is ice.
yet why is this so?
How did it ever grow?
How am I to know?
what am I to do
he hasn't got a clue
but perhaps the best thing to do
is nothing at all