𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘 -bob dylan

─ 𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

in his eyes, there she frolicked. dancing with the blowing weeds that she referred to as fallen flowers. his mind was occupied by the ethereal visual of the mid summer's sun beating down upon her strands of recently dyed golden locks. the locks that draped from her shoulders in a five star hotel manner.

her eyes almost flowed like the streaming river with the crystallized water that beat in happiness from the lack of touch. it all made him trace his thoughts back down that way sweltering path to her. there was a light, something that they say only appears when your life fades, but his life just begun. 

and although, he put on the friend role for her, he couldn't mistake the feeling he felt. the ones that were stronger than the force of forbidden wind that came crashing down his window, clearing away all beauty that the spring sprinkled. 

he had to convince himself, his eyes that she was there tonight. watching him with her beam that was more luminous than any of the hanging stage lights they draped upon him. and that after he preformed her hands would soon ache from her ovation. 

he saw her front row, her eyes widening with anticipation as the booming voice of the host rang through speakers. everyone followed him with their eyes, eagerly waiting for him to begin the song he was selected to preform. 

and once the cameras now followed him, he did. he had poured his heart out into these lyrics that so many critics, and fans alike, had believed were written and sung for his straining marriage that never was tight. he never spoke about what the song was about. for he could never loose his persona. not then, certainly not now.

he bellowed about a relationship, a girl whom he once had. and only he knew who he wailed about in a melodic tune. the only memory he could hold of the lyrics was a creased sheet of paper, doused in salty tears that once fell from his very own eyes. 

they soaked each word, so much his hands soon ached from the continual times he rewrote those lyrics down on a new sheet. the only thing his wails earned him were long nights of love making, only because through his wife's eyes he was drowning in his own despair of their marriage. that they both didn't want to realize, was slowly falling apart. crumbling into nothingness.

he never promised her the song was written with the memory of their marriage. he never spoken to her about what exactly he threw away. therefore he never told a lie regarding the song that she deemed 'too poetic' for the times they were persisting in. 

when his fingers stopped picking, and the calluses eased down with his stirring tension he held within him, the crowed cheered calmly. appropriately. all it took was a sheer smile and a faint wave to leave. but he didn't do the bare minimum. he opened his lips once the noises died out, and he spoke.

"thank you, thank you very much."

some must've believed he was impersonating the man with the jet hued pompadour. he was, actually. not with his voice, not at all, but with the famous words. many sat in there seats, puzzling across their accumulating why's? why did he do that? is there something going on between the two? how ironic- or is it a coincidence that the man whom posted this program crossed the path of the smirking 50s sensation one too many times?

no one truly knew why, the cameras didn't even tape him speaking those words. perhaps out of dry fear of some astriction that could become of the two icons. although, the man with the curved nose and recently changed voice knew exactly why he did what he did.

she always loved elvis. 

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙