I see the mahgony guitar, specked with chipped paint, leaning against the dusky wall, and a flood of memories washes over me. Almost instantly I can see you sitting on the worn down, unstable stool with your strong arms holding the same guitar, your tanned hands striking the chords, creating a melody so smooth, so sad in its tune I can almost feel my heart twisting in pain for you. Shafts of sunlight stream through the window and wash over you, caressing your high cheeks, kissing your subtle jaw, making you look like a divine, mythical creature. You have your eyes closed, you’re sunk deep into the harmonious music you are creating, you seem distant, lost in a land where the music has drowned all your sorrows. Your tolerance for pain is a thing of legend.
A gentle breeze follows, the wind ruffles your thick black hair, leaving them disheveled, reflecting the state you constantly find yourself in. Dappled with spots of sunlight, you look like you’re made out of gold. You sit there unaware of how the sun has illuminated your skin, of how unreal you look. The guitar is leaning against your chest, the poetry of the music resounding in your heart. Your sight makes me feel like I’ve come out of a dark room into the sunblast of a spring afternoon.
The music is fading, its fainter now. You open your eyes. A golden haze settles over the room. Its warm and dusky, but the sun has lost its shine. We sit there soaking up the warmth. There is an inexplicable sense of gloom around us, like the strange wistfulness of used bookshops. Silence alone fills the void in the room. We sit there unmoving, two people lost in forgotten music.