All of those love songs make a different noise.
Each background cello note vibrates on my panel of heartstrings, snapping them one by one.
Each minor note sung by broken hearted lyricists swells in my lungs and scratches upward into a mournful wimper.
Even the upeat drums thud hollow and muffled in comparison to my souls echoing cries.
Music can not be music when the one my heart sings for ripped himself away, not bothering to finish our chorus.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
All of those love songs make a different noise.
Each background cello note vibrates on my panel of heartstrings, snapping them one by one.
Each minor note sung by broken hearted lyricists swells in my lungs and scratches upward into a mournful wimper.
Even the upeat drums thud hollow and muffled in comparison to my souls echoing cries.
Music can not be music when the one my heart sings for ripped himself away, not bothering to finish our chorus.
