He played to the rhythm of the rain,
a glass of blood red pinot noir at his feet,
an acoustic guitar balanced on his knee –
crooning the sounds of an
aching heart.
The acoustic paused its epitaph,  
letting the patter of rain on an
aluminum roof
fill in the sounds where his friend
should have been.
He glanced at the empty wicker chair beside him
and wondered –
despite their ranging conversations
from music to Hell –  
why they never discussed what one would do
without the other.