He was in a cafe across the tracks,
Leaning against an ancient, crumbling brick wall
The sun hung low through the window showing off a gold halo in his hair
On his lap he held his six string,
Gently strumming a soft tune
She watched, from just inside the brick archway
The guitar mans lips were red as a bleeding rose
He gave her a glance, sideways, showing her a colour of blue she'd never seen before
Her breathing stopped
Moving forward, entranced, toward the strumming siren
She couldn't help herself
Her deft movements, won her a second glance, and half a smile
Yet, still he played on
And it became clear then, he already held his only love
He was, after all,
A guitar man