Some strings were all she wanted to play with. A small piece of plastic helped but sometimes all she needed was her thumb. The tips of her fingers were calloused but she didn't care. Sitting on that deck up in the mountains, surrounded by friends and the wind. Strumming that guitar, sitting barefoot on her favorite stool and wondering how she could play and hold her bottle of alcohol at the same time. Sometimes when those notes floated off those strings, they mesmerized even her. She couldn't believe they came from such small movements but even more impressive was the heart from where they were derived.

He was brilliant in his own right, he sat many a night alone in his room. One small desk lamp, a table tray, some paper and that trusty acoustic he had bought so many years ago. He may not have used it for shows but it's where any of his songs came to life for the first time. He was teaching himself cords, while she was miles away drinking and hitting a cue ball around.

Through a meeting of chance (aren't they all though?) they met and he showed her a few notes and she took that guitar like she had played for years. She made his songs, her songs. They played side by side for months. Not until later did she find out that he almost pummeled her for touching his guitar, no one touched it. His mother was the last woman to touch it before she killed herself. He thought that was the last bond he had with her.

For all things so simple between friends was over as quickly as it started. Jealous companions didn't understand the art that bound these two... So the music lived on in one and the other walked off without ever looking back. Regrets one has are few but letting go so quickly makes her think she should have turned around one last time.