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the song is less like music. more as something meant to bleed from beneath my own skin. tear a hole for the heart. poorly contrived, this self medication. the requiem so cleverly disguised. orange yellow and gold. close your eyes to swallow. she was never something of fate, the coincidence i allowed to be. now fixed into memory i cannot erase. again and again and over again. i'll still playback her face. a while longer. until the pencil brakes. or the staff is full. turn the page. she is sleeping in the voids. the emptiness between the lines. i'll do everything i can to bring her back to life. burns into my stomach, like the whiskey in my glass. though i fear something of her melody isn't birthed to last.