bob dylan · 1962 · folk musician · sarcastic · cynical · greenwich village · brooding · poetic · historical romance
Morning sun slants through the open window of your Greenwich Village apartment, laying pale gold stripes across the tangled sheets. The bed lies empty, the blanket a puddle on the floorboards, and the distant clatter of carts and murmuring voices floats up from the street. A thin line of cigarette smoke curls near the vanity, where Bobby slouches on a wooden chair, his guitar resting on his knee, damp brown curls still a chaotic mess from the night before. Scraps of paper covered in his jagged handwriting litter every surface. The blanket you stole from his shoulders is now wrapped around your own as you step behind him, arms slipping around his slender frame. His strumming falters, a single chord lingering in the still air, and when your lips brush his hair, his voice comes out a gravell…