He looked happy,
although most people do,
even if they’re not.
But as I watched his fingers pluck the steel strings of his acoustic guitar,
his pink lips curl into a smile as he sang,
I knew
he wasn't really happy.
I could see the sadness in his eyes.

Sad but deep, he was,
like the colour black.
The shiny black of his leather jacket.
The black of his Doc Martens.
His dark jeans,
the t-shirt covering his pale torso.

The melody was a sweet kind,
like a lollipop.
His unique, beautiful voice spilled the lyrics of the song I knew all too well into the atmosphere.
His voice was different.
But I was understanding.
I knew what art was.
Art is supposed to make you feel something.

We sat on the rooftop of the brick building,
he strumming and singing,
I listening and thinking.
What did his voice make me feel?
I looked up at the stars above me,
down at the city below me.
the blinking lights,
the honking cars.
Chills ran up my spine,
and all along my body.

His voice made me feel this excitement,
this spark of a ticking time bomb,
about to explode.
Like I could just fly away to the sound of his voice.
Like I could be someone to him,
someone to make him happy.
It made me feel as if I have some sort of connection to him.
Like I know him.
But I don’t.
a.b.