What He Loves

The first thing to catch my eye is the crystal blue of his guitar, the second is the way his fingers dance across the strings. Then my ears register the music, and I stop walking. My mind is swept clean of the places I have to be, and the people I have to meet. I stand in the dappled sunlight, under the trees in the park, and watch this boy play.

He stands, swaying slightly with his notes, his guitar strapped around him. Honey curls fall into his eyes, and he flicks them out of his face. Red flannel, skinny jeans, cigarette behind his ear; he’s the perfect image of the Rebellious Teenager.

Except that it’s Saturday, and this boy is here, in an almost deserted park, picking at the strings of a guitar. And somehow that makes him different from the teens I see walking around town.

My gaze is eventually met with his own forest green stare, and he smirks when he sees me watching. His eyes go back to his hands, to the strings, and I follow his gaze. He holds the pick as if it is an extension of himself, his fingers slide down and I can see how his fingers have been cut by the strings.

The music ceases to matter, though it is flawless. I notice the freedom in his smile, the passion in his movements. The love in his gaze. He closes his eyes and I can almost feel the relief he feels, being able to escape into a world entirely of his own creating. A world where the streets are paved with music. A world where the stars sing.

I envy his ability to disappear. And I envy the beauty he creates.

I turn to go, looking back once at the boy with the blue guitar, but he’s floating in the sound and drowning in detachment.


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