We were silhouettes. You can still see us walking across the porch in summer. Our shadows weaving in and out of each other. You just have to know how to look. Dancing like broken hearts, valves flying wildly, blood rushing up in fountains, flecked across your face. Red hearts. Red blankets. Red winters. Red violins. I understood why he did it. I understood the amount of passion and amount of crazy it took to dip that paintbrush in and drag it across the naked wood. I understood the amount of sorrow needed to create such a beautiful sound. We are just water in the end. The water mixes with paint. Among other things. I hear voices at night sometimes. And I don't want to answer. They're looking for me but I want to remain hidden. Cut all ties. Break all bricks. Crumble like the cookies you left in the oven for too long when you were looking for me and I was buried in some corner crying. I fall. And keep falling. And never stop. And yet I'm not flying. Sometimes it's just gray mist we've got for company. Your mind can race all it wants but it never goes anywhere. Just holds you in this cloud. White fog and silence. But you can feel the sun somewhere. Off in a different world.
The record stopped and I realized it had never been there to begin with. It was only ever what I wanted it to be but I never saw it. Just the old dusty player. Waiting expectantly. The notes were just memories. Sometimes memories can be more alive than the flesh and blood around you. That's what I like to believe. But it still doesn't get me out of here. Stop trying so hard. Graves and Graduations are patient enough.
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