She knew times when everything seemed black, when hope had been lost and there appeared to be no more steps on the path. She couldn't see that behind it all life was shining, and that all those who had already stopped walking were screaming to her to 'hang on' - because, out of pain, beauty could grow, roses springing from manure. He told her that saying goodbye would just leave a hole so huge that only darkness could fill it, and that, even the tiniest glimmer of goodness contained seeds that must be watered and nourished. He begged her to grow roses, thorns and all. She listened and she understood.
He reached for his guitar and it become a part of him, moulded to his shape, an able extension of his large dexterous hands. He sank back into the cushions and began to strum. It was insistant and hypnotic like a heartbeat, and it soothed him. His eyes took on that familiar far away look, as the music wrapped around him and entered him through his pores. She watched, as the haunting melody became his breathing, and she felt it pick him up and transport him to somewhere that she had never been.
It was a long time ago, the wild days, hedonism and music outside of time and space. Internal cosmonauts setting sail for the far inner reaches propelled by hallucinogens and prayer. Sacred smoke a daily sacrement shared by two, to give them eyes to see what others didn't. Cocooned inside the egg of their own making, a rare reality. But even the toughest shells begin to crack when the life inside has filled up all of the available room. Growth needs space. So in the spirit of evolurion she walked away, leaving him standing there alone amongst the shards of shattered shell. And life as it always does, moved on...