I broke your heart so you would play again.

It wasn’t my plan all along but somewhere in there I knew it would be the only way.

When we first met, you couldn’t stop playing. It seems mundane to say I was your muse. You were always stringing chords together, tying them with words, and pouring it all through your soul. You drew inspiration from my warmth, you matched my love with yours, and melodies spilled out your lips and tumbled from your fingertips.

Laughter came easy and conversations came easier. Our bodies together seemed to set everything ablaze, together we were unshakeable. You played and sang and built a fortress around us, I kept you safe. With our hands locked together, we held our own against the world.

And as the seasons changed, so did we. We mirrored the distance as the space between dusk and dawn grew wider. The fault lines trembled beneath our footsteps, the lies pushed us further, and the darkness cracked between our ribs. You would mumble that you were fine but the twinkle lights in your eyes had disappeared, and I knew you well enough to know no one there.

You blamed me, that the warmth was gone and my heart had gone cold. I took the stone that was left and tried to break you, scream at you for leaving me empty, and then beg for you to fill me up again. But you wanted nothing more to do with a pile of bones.

One sleepless night, I ran my hand across the neck of your guitar. The chord was out of tune and my hand came away with dust. I couldn’t remember the last time you played. I sat there, strumming it for hours; immersed in the black-lit epiphany of the end of us, as the moon finished her arc.

The next morning I was gone. Later that night I listened to a voicemail of your new song.