December 5, 2011
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I waited for her,
Listening for her pulse,
The sound that encompassed my
I searched in the high and low ranges for her,
Underneath the

Thick silence

That coated the stillness of my studio.
Rosalina, mi amor.
As if she were playing hide and seek, I called
Out to her.
She had all power, the only thing
That could determine what notes
Would pour out of my soul.
I tried to find where
Her melodies and tempos would stretch; let the
Nature of Music
Take its course.
My fingers wrapped themselves
About my beat-up
Ibanez guitar.
With my eyes shut, I slid my curious fingers
Up and down the neck.
Where are you, Rosalina, I wondered.
Finally, after allowing myself to
Become one with the riffs and chords,
My hands found her,
Rosalina, the Music.
And how wonderful she was;
Her every insecurity and thought
Being exposed through those
Twelve strings of mine.
She sang to me, telling
Me her secrets as music poured its soul out into
The atmosphere.
I laughed softly to myself, because
My dear Rosalina and I,
We were together.

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