i do not deny it.

It began by consequence of her entrance into the room. As our eyes met, my intestines were stimulated and rumbled like the titter-tattering of sticks across the slowly tightening skin of a drum. This feeling gave me cause to sit up straight and hold my breath.

Though I tried to hold in this mounting sentiment, the union of our sweaty hands added saturation to the gaseousness within me, and beads of perspiration began to roll down my brow. In my efforts of suppression, I stared and smiled and loved her, and refused to move or even cough.

Staring into my eyes, she smiled and then closed hers. Here, with her moving towards me, the aforementioned rolling drums gave way to the bombast of the brass band playing in my physiological orchestra and I suddenly pulled back to make the music of the human heart.

MOVEMENT ONE: The low rumble of the tympanis.
MOVEMENT TWO: The blare of the trumpets, tubas, and trombones.
MOVEMENT THREE: The high, gasping staccato notes squeaking forth from the flute.
THE FINALE: all the players loosed a wretched symphony of all that was simmering and growing inside of me. I could not help myself. I had nothing else to say- I sat there, foolishly, and smiled.

In giving her allowance and entrance into this concert of my body, in a sense, I showed her my heart; but alas, to no avail- she turned her nose up at me. She said she loved me, and she did- but she did not like what she had heard- it was too much for her to handle.

As the leaves ultimately give way to the bluster in early November, her hand drifted forth from mine. And as her senses computed what came forth from inside of me- dear God, tears welled up in her eyes, and she left- desperate for a breath of air away and apart from what I had released.

I was left alone to sit and fester with my wafting stench of loneliness in the stuffy den. Taking the time to give sensuous reflection to what I had purported, not even I could deal with its resonance, and alas, felt its sting.

Oh love! My lady, my love! I am so heartily sorry to have left a taste of unpleasantly in your mouth. But please do not direct your anger at me, but at God almighty himself who has cursed and filled us all with these feelings. For you know that you yourself, when alone, staring at a sparrow through an open window liberate this bubble, and, at times, cause even the meditative bird to take flight. Think about that my precious, and acknowledge that all brown eyes cry.