He sings love songs.
That old man who sits on the corner. With his heavy stained coat and thick salt and pepper hair and an even thicker beard. He sits with an old guitar in his lap, tapping his heavy booted feet, calloused fingers always plucking at those strings.
He sits on that corner just off the intersection, lyrical declarations of devotion and whispered promises of passionate tomorrows spilling from his lips. He sings, his voice deep like the oceans depths, heavy as a mountain and firm, like the dirt beneath your heels. He sings of love, like it’s a tangible thing that’s filled his veins, his lungs — a gentle suffocation. A sweet poison.
Like if he stops — he stops.
That old man, who surrounds himself in darkness — you can see it in the scars on his hands and face, in the bitter cold just beyond his warm gaze — who settles in with the shadows and grime of the city, with only a padded cushion and his guitar case to shield him. And isn’t it funny that he’s the one to sing of peace, happiness and love?
He draws in crowds, but never asks for money from his listeners. He only invites them to listen, to take his words and hold them close and use them to warm other weary and innocent souls alike. To pause and hear and remember what a wonderful feeling love is.
How had such a man filled himself with so much love that he’s nearly bursting at the seams? No one knows. And no one questions. What would be the point in questioning something as simple and profound as love? (Not that he would answer if one did ask.)
He plays, rain or shine, at his little corner of the world. He plays for those who need a little taste of warmth, either because they have never known it, or in remembrance. He plays for couples who pause; either to hold each other closer, or to dance to his sweet tunes. He plays for singles; men and women who have fallen out of love or haven’t yet found it. And he plays for children; who wear their hearts on their sleeves, who give and collect love without thought, without fear of someone taking advantage, and without a need for those feelings to be returned in full. They understand more than their older counterparts.
There is a man who sits on a corner and plays loves songs, and only love songs. A man whose identity is unknown, even to those who regularly listen. No one asks his name, and he doesn’t trouble them with the knowledge.
He’s the man who sings love songs, and that is all anyone needs to know.