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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]