Til the night you played me your scratched record.
It skipped it was filled with d is sona nce It had no consistency but its consistency of cacophonies.
Others would have thrown the record away, unable to bear its e rra tic ways. Others would have said it's Broken. Unfixable. A disaster. Too much.
But you , you weren't like the others. You did not want to throw away the scratched record; you did not even want to take the scratched record to a repair shop, for you , you somehow seemed to find a harmony in the scratched record.
So you closed your eyes to the endless loop of the scratched record and said It was the most beautiful song you've ever heard
Because to you, The most beautiful are the most broken.
I wrote a poem about you again. You wouldn't leave my head and when it was 4am laying awake i was drowning in the feeling of love. Just as all the love songs suddenly made sense, suddenly all the words I wrote where about you. I promise this will be The last words I'll write about you. Goodbye.
I wish I could describe with words of the unknown the quivering of my organs and the shaking of my bones from heat of your mouth, the potentness of your tone because with every ' I love you' I feel more at home