Sometimes I write music, and sometimes I record it, and sometimes I mean things that you never have heard.
This town was paper, parchment and leaves.
Your house was a memory.
Written in the breeze.
I carried it with me.
Stored in my lungs.
Until I woke beside her.
and it wasn’t enough.
I burnt all the paper.
It made a great pyre.
I tossed in the pictures.
They crinkled, expired.
Yet I carried it all with me.
Till’ I showered off the ash.
Washed clean of your promises.
I hope that it lasts.
Then one day we found writing on the walls.
Beneath the posters I hung to cover it all.
They reminded me. The memories are real, even if they aren’t written, or inhaled on a whim.
They’re still in the air.
You left them there, when you burned them by the sea.
Sure this town was paper, but she wont burn so easily.
[shameless paper towns reference, all hail John Green]
I could picture myself breaking down in front of no one in particular. Trying so hard to let out everything I had been holding back for months now.
It’s incurable, because for someone who’s head is so stuck in the past, I see what I’m supposed to eventually forget fight away details of every day.
So it left my mouth, like twenty little soldiers on a mission. twenty soldiers, who breached my teeth, with a ferocity I had never seen before, storming the beaches, while the rain came down on their little heads.
They thought they had the right beach, the right shore, but when they stormed up for those spoils of war, they found the villagers unassuming and draped on their floors.
they weren’t prepared, and they weren’t aware that opening fire would haunt them for the rest of their lives.