She sits slowly melting into a puddle hued red and smelling of too much Nyquil and too little sense to go to sleep when she gets tired. His lyrics bob in bright colors microscopically crossing the gap between headphone and ear. Maybe she thinks she could sound like that if someone would want to listen. Even if nobody heard it would still be…the tree that fell and no one mourned. The promise of rain and thoughts of school kids in fancy black walking from a funeral home you think maybe they know something you don’t. They bounce back. Maybe the clouds will spark electric and fall to pieces tomorrow. Electric you, electric me. oh how oh how it should really be.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.