A Poet's Musings

11

The world's weight sweetly numbed by how perfect was the clouded gloomy day.

Tinted windows kept looming eyes that may look at us at bay.

Alone, I witnessed a soul that fixed itself and learned; and I knew-he was a spark that kindled a passion-fueled flame in me.

It birthed from virtuosos and their compositions of melody; the strums of rusted-strings on a scarlet guitar filled the vehicle with awkward glee.

The coin he used made a pleasant sound-and yet it muted his skill. But his index-kissing-thumb, like a veteran of dance, urged all old and unfit to perform the intended tune.

I was seated beside him silently, and he seemed nervous, but he played anyway.

Cold seeped through the fabric of my polyester sweater, but the warmth in me from staring at my not-so-stranger-anymore, repelled it.

I could paint the scene in my head a millionfold, but nothing could defeat that first moment in time.

A first in a while, witnessing a creation of love killing decline.

by M. Z.