Needle And Thread

TYPEWRITER.

They say to type it out. The mixed, bottled up feelings… they always turn into song.

This little shabe of a “home” helps prove what I am worth. But, I get by.

The roof leaks and the floor creaks…I get barley any sleep…yet, it is home.

I do not talk much, but when I do all most people get is my name. Ryan Ross.

I rarely go out either and when I do the only thing that keeps me from rushing home is the man with the guitar. He is always out there…trying to make a dollar or two.

I love to loathe him.

Not that I envy him, of course not…it is that I wish I was him. Just like him. He stands out.

And even though I cannot bring myself to talk to him…the attraction draws me in. I always tip him as I walk by. Even if all I can give him is pocket change.

Most of what I type is inspired by him…the way he makes me feel…I could not be more in love…I deny it!

Sleep, live, die alone.

I cannot have it any other way…I could not even dare!

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GUITARMAN.

All the greats start from scratch…and one day I am going to be famous!

Sometimes the corner I stand on floods in the rain or stinks like high heaven on trash day from the restaurant on the left. But, it is my corner. I have stood here and played my guitar for years.

The tips are okay, but I live in the alley way… it is worth it though. The right person will walk by and I will be famous.

I see new faces every day. Some have become familiar. Especially this little boy.

He never looks me in the eyes and keeps his head down. But no matter what, he puts something in my guitar case.

I sometimes see him in my dreams. About 98 percent of the time he is the angel that watches over me and sees to my wishes to be famous…the other 2 percent wonders to the thrill of the possibility of being lovers…

For once I wish he would raise his beautiful face, look me in the eyes and ask me my name…then I would say: Pete Wentz.

I would share my fortune and fame with him. Get him out of this horrible area and put him in the place he belongs…safe graces.

To have him and be famous…I would be the luckiest man alive.

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TYPEWRITER.

The wooden chair in front of the window is starting to collect dust. I do not dare to look out and day dream anymore about the possibility of flight.

I slump around the place. Running out of paper, ink,…sanity…

I have come to find I am in love. Or at least the thought of love. I could really care less, all I know is that I want it…badly. Not just any love… but his love. His warmth, his caress, his heart. I am done with denying it.

I have noticed he has been staying out longer and longer as the city lights get brighter than fade.

I want to come to him as the lights fade. I want to show him I could be his bright side in the dark. To hold him and kiss him… support him and care for him.

Be his needle and thread for his whoms and love him unconditionally.

I do not want to be alone anymore.

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GUITARMAN.

The street lights start to go off one corner at a time. Mine is always last. The street is dead as I pack up my guitar.

The street light shines over me as I put my guitar away and throw the case over my shoulder.

I started to walk towards my alley way. A chill ran down my spine and my footsteps started to echo.

They got closer and closer so I started to run. The echoing steps went into a sprint behind me.

I ran to my alley way. A shadow of a man stood tall on the ground and got smaller as the man got closer.

In a panic I grabbed a empty beer bottle.

The shadow of the man was now right in front of me. I hit the bottle against the man’s head and it broke the bottle to a sharp point.

The man stumbled and mumbled something as a shadow of his hand holding something came flinging towards me.

I swung the bottle and started to stab in defense. The man screamed in pain and fell to the floor in a pool of blood.

He was dead.

I dragged him to the last lit street light. It was the beautiful boy. In his hand was rolled up papers.

I closed his hurt eyes and kissed his soft lips.

I took the papers from his hand and started to walk closer to the street light.

The papers were songs…love songs. At the end of each, he personally signed his name.

Ryan Ross.

I rolled the papers back up and hugged them tight to my chest as I walked away from the light and into the dark.