Scratchings across the paper. The dull sound of a pencil laboriously drug across paper.
Paper worn with scribbles and eraser marks.

What was it that I meant to write again?

Chopin drones tirelessly in the background, reminding me that anything played C sharp minor elicits emotion from even the most statuesque.

An unwelcome elicitation.
Purpose blown off course by that melancholic drone. My to do list at the mercy of the pianist.

Romance crosses my mind and memories flood the room, dancing softly to the tune. Wafting slowly until they brush my hair then disappear again, to-- where? The background to haunt me again, or away to never return from whence they came?

I can imagine Chopin sitting in his room, scribbling with his pen, writing those lost moments in notes.
Who was she, where did she go? Was it love? Was it loss?

B flat minor, E flat major all dance across the stage of life. Seasons rise and fall to the music of it all. These souls we were given, inexplicably driven to share their inner most in whatever expression they find fitting.
Mine is to put pen to paper and create words to which rhymes are written.
Yours, although not any less driven, can create music to which my soul desires to share its dance.
And that, truly, is romance.

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    What is this?

    A conglomeration of thoughts at any given moment.