An idea that came to me yesterday when I listened to one of my friends playing the guitar.

Out on the street in front of the mall. There he sits.

He holds the guitar close to his chest just as he would an infant baby.

His thin jacket has dirty spots all over it and he has plenty of holes in his jens. His sneakers were once white but are now almost pitchblack and very worn-out. An army-green bowler sits atop his dark curls. His chin shows it is almost time for him to shave again and his eyes are as brown and warm as a cup of delicious hot chocolate.

He is despite the dirt still good looking. And the guitar is much cleaner than its owner, who treats it with the utmost care.

He cares very much for his guitar. He loves his guitar. It is his most precious possession. The guitar makes him happy.

His music makes people happy - especially me

I know all this because I always see him. He sits there every single day. Alone with his guitar he sits and shares his tunes with any one who wants to hear them.

I pass him on a daily basis. Some times only to see him. I don't know if he is aware of it. He only has eyes for one thing. He only has eyes for one thing.

Once he had his eyes on me too. At least I think he had. Perhaps the guitar has always been his only love. That might be the reason it never worked out.

I know him. We were close.

But not anymore.

Now all he has are his tunes. And all I have are the moments I can listen to them.

I wish I could have told him. Told him how much I love them. Told him that he was too good to sit on the streets. I would like to tell him how much I love him and his tunes. I crave him and his tunes. I hope he knows even though I forgot to tell him.

That is why I make my way past him every day. I need to hear it.

Every day he sits there and plays.

There is a plastic container in front of him. It contains a few golden coins.

This is his life. He sits there every day and gets only the cash people put into his container.

Some times I put something in it too. But not always. Some times I just hide away and listen so that he won't know I'm there.

I don't know how long it has been like this. But that's how it is.

The dark curls have now turned grey and he doesn't have to shave anymore.

He has bags and wrinkles below the brown eyes. It is clearly visible that he has trouble sleeping at night.

The guitar also looks older. Now it is almost as dirty as its owner.

I look older now as well, my hair has also turned grey and I am now a grandmother.

He still sits there and plays his music every day. I still come buy every day to listen. But his tunes are still young and beautiful.

The listeners have not grown older but fewer. And the same goes for the coins in his container.

I walk over to him and throw down a golden coin. He looks at me and smiles. I smile too and walk away.

To him I am now nothing more than another face among his audience. He doesn't remember who I am. Though I still remember him. I remember him quite well.

The next day I find the guitar lying on the ground. The owner is nowhere to be seen. One of the strings is broken. The container is still there. But it's empty.

I flee. I do not cry with my eyes but with my heart. I hold my hands close to my chest and feel the pain. I remember the tunes. I hear them so clearly as though they were really here now. Now they seem so sad.

When I come back the guitar is gone too. Somebody must have taken it. And somebody must have thrown the container into the garbage-can.

I still see him before my eyes, sitting there playing his tunes. But he has stopped playing. He is gone.

I always knew he was too good to sit here. Now he can play on a bigger and better stage. Maybe it won't be long before I get the chance to hear it.