0 The Love of Music

His fingers moved from fret to fret.
His eyes burned with passion as he concentrated
on every note.

His blond hair fell, onto his sweaty forehead,
not caring if he couldn't see the thousands in front of him; listening eagerly to every word,
to every note.

From the most joyful, to the most depressing, to the heaviest song.
He kept in beat, in tune with his love.

He looked at her with love and desire, but not as much love as he had for the chords he played, the
strings he plucked,
every note he hit.

The feeling only he could feel, like a fourth primary color only he knew.
The love of music.

--Veronica D., 16