Music. It's the only thing in this world that keeps me going. Calloused fingertips strum, pluck, pick shining guitar strings. Acoustic. Vintage. My caramel-finished, wooden miracle. The evening December breeze carries my voice away like silver ashes, scattering them amongst the rushing yellow cabs and the streetlamps slowly, slowly flickering to life. New York City rings with my song- or at least this corner of Manhattan. Cigarette butt tornadoes start to collect at my feet, harsh wind licks my face. Taunting. Disheartening. No one's listening. Empty bodies pass, their eyes blank and bored. Oblivious. My willpower to continue playing dwindles. Calloused fingers go limp, my last chord lingering, heavy, dissipating. My coffee can sits- empty- at my feet. Another evening of petty begging and heartless passers by. At least I earned some alone time... it's hard to come by lately.
And so returns the cacophony of tires over broken glass clashing with the calls and cries of angry men clashing with the thousand tiny beads of light rushing at me clashing with the clak clak clak of heels on frozen pavement. Smog and noise are the lifeblood of my little corner of Manhattan- my little slice of heaven- but they're not the reason my heart is dragged back here night after night. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts from the shop I share my heaven with. I know that every night, like clockwork, I can catch a glimpse of her face. Cinnamon mocha beauty. I swear, her chocolate eyes lock with my own brassy, amber and- I know it sounds odd but, I feel with every timid glance she sees deep into the depths of my spirit and... and she understands. She understands me like no other. Yet we haven't breathed a single word. The clak clak clak of her heels. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. This is my moment to break our silence.
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