pencil lines // e.s.

This is my first attempt at some kind of poetry...and most likely last as I'm not exaclty good at it but I wanted to give it a try. Also, this was originally an actual story just in case you read that and got confused and went wtf, where'd the story go?

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The room was quiet,

Everything was still,

She made silent sniffles from the covers,

But still, all was quiet.

She twiddled the gun in between her fingertips,

Thinking... thinking... thinking.

One bullet is all it could take,

To save her from this nightmare.

Her head shook them away,

She turned to her real savior:

The paper... the pencil...

The tuneful man.

She wrote her ails... her story,

All to the man whom she had never met.

She poured her soul out,

And it formed a sketch of the ginger man.

The following night was less quiet,

With shouting from downstairs,

All at the amber haired girl.

But still, all was as it always was.

She snuck out,

Ran down the desolate road,

To the rusted red mailbox,

And off went letter number one.

Every night she checked,

In hope and in risk,

But no reply came.

So off went the second letter.

Weeks went by,

A third, a fourth, a fifth letter was sent,

With still no reply.

Amber had almost given up hope.

But he got every letter,

Pinned up every picture,

Plotted out a reply to each.

None were ever sent.

A month passed,

And Ed's house was loud with sports,

Until her acclaimed final letter fell through the door,

But still, he read it like he always did.

This time he replied,

To convince her to keep writing to him,

Because he would miss her hand writing... her sketches...

Because he would miss her.

But Amber gave up checking the mail,

So her secret was discovered,

Her body was punished,

And once again the gun was pushed to her temple.

But, this time, in the hands of another.

Still no bullet.

Still no death.

And no more letters.

Anxiety grew in her absence.

Adrenaline of heroes,

Grew in the rereads of letters.

Until he could not take it anymore.

The car was quiet,

All except from the electronic voice,

Guiding him to her,

But still, the anxiety and adrenaline thrived.

It took days to find,

Hours to get out of the car,

Fearful minutes to sneak past the murky windows,

And seconds to finally meet the girl he felt he knew.

Guttering turned into a ladder,

And a small hand found home in his.

Covered and bare feet ran along side each other,

As equals... as friends.

And, as if by magic,

The girl was free from harm,

Separated from it by thousands of miles and bars.

But still, she was not free from the harm inside her head.

She still gave him letters,

Every Saturday morning in fact.

But there was no longer a story...

There was no longer truth.

The house was no longer quiet,

There were tunes... there was love.

Nimble fingers plucked on strings and pencil marks were made on paper.

But still, the demons did not go.

New songs were released.

New stories on the amber haired girl appeared.

Letters began to stop.

Amber stayed on the guitar over night and day.

That is, until Ed was gone,

And she wrote her final letter with her only song,

She titled it Parting Glass,

And she left... forever.

He read it like always,

And pinned it up with the others.

Then he cried... he cried for the girl he couldn't save.

But on he lived as if she never existed.

The arena fell silent,

Waiting for the melody to play.

Ed played her song like he did every show.

But still, she did not play along side him.