Gemotions

He sat on the park bench, hunched and small, the collar of his threadbare jacket pulled up around his ears. Autumn leaves, brittle and brown, swirled around his feet, mirroring the decay he felt within. A busker a few yards away was playing an acoustic guitar. A recognizable opening chord.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut against the inevitable. It was the same song, the one he'd crafted, slaved over, poured his lifeblood into. Now, it was just another cover tune, played for spare change. The busker's voice, though technically competent, lacked the raw vulnerability he had poured into it.

He opened his eyes, watched a young couple holding hands sway to the music. A deep, hollow emptiness settled in the pit of his stomach. He stood up abruptly, turned his back to the music, and walked away, the wind whipping his coat around him.