The few hidden bars of an early Christmas carol
have lingered in my mind for what has now been
twenty-five hours,
causing me to question when it last was
that I chose to replay music in my head
instead of it being annoyingly stuck there.
How often it is that we love songs we rarely listen to
and hate the ones that we can't ignore.
I had forgotten the intensity that appears
when words are presented in a way
that I have always understood.
It leaves me awake with my restless hands
wanting to do something with the partial noise
that will never be completed,
so I continue to stick with the deep simplicity
of unused lyrics that leave me unfulfilled
because they are without sound.

There is more talent in the lifting of your stare
than there is in my entire being,
and even more is hidden beneath the tips of your fingers
that mix reality with fiction,
grinding the ivory until only a powder remains
after an emotional admittance to being hard to handle.
The resurrected words are laced with premonitions
for a man who hasn't yet quit this crazy scene.

Last week it lasted no more than ten minutes,
but this time shows no sign of fading
as I have four minutes of surprising passion
that continue to ignite the creativity
I have been unable to awaken for very long,
but I feel guilty for experiencing happiness
from someone who may not have any of his own.
I am amazed at the power of inspiration
that easily melts what has long been frozen.
It snows maybe too much here
and my feet haven't touched the ice in years,
but tonight I am skating away
on the clear surface of your expression,
hoping that you also find a river so long.

Alana Munoz

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