He sits and reads,
Turning page after page.
His eyes skate over the words,
Reading each curve and
Living its life.

He’s not like his parents.
Pushes away the alcohol they offer.
“It’s just a sip,” Father says.
“No,” he replies. “None for me.”
“Try,” Mother urges.
“Not for me,” he answers calmly.

Not unlike others,
He’s wasted time.
He’s lived and
Loved others,
But not himself.

He doesn’t know how
Brave he’s been when
He could have been like
Them.

He sits in his
Ten by ten room and
Writes until his heart sits
Shriveled, dry, frail.

He longs for her
But has made mistakes.
It’s too late.
Too many days
Left behind.

His guitar is his only
Comfort.
He clings to its strings and
Glides his fingers over the
Smooth neck and pretends it’s
Her.

Tears stream down his face
As Father pops another bottle.
The cap rolls slowly along the
Hardwood floor,
Ricocheting off his bedroom door and
Circling blindly before
Falling and falling and
Giving up.

He picks up his guitar,
Holds it to his chest.
It’s the only thing that feels his
Heart beat anymore.

She sits alone
Waiting at his door.
He cannot hear,
The guitar drowning out
Her cries,
His cries,
Their cries.

They sit on opposite sides of the wall.

He sits and clings to his guitar
As she stares blankly at her hand,
Poised lightly gripped around his doorknob.
“Let me in,” she whispers.
“No, not today,” he sings in response.
“Let me love,” she cries.
“Only today,” he calls in reply.