“It’s flat. Lyrics are limp. Melody’s rubbish.”
He’s staring into nothing?—
the coffee table,
the wood grain,
the face of his ex.
“Music’s meant to fuck you up a little, yeah?”
He shakes his head, over it.
“So I need it to fuckinghurt.
“The way I’m fucking hurting.”
Then he shoots to his feet,
the words snatching him up.
Pacing, breathing, he spins to face me,
hands locked behind his neck.
“Let’s bin it,” he says, jaw flexing.
“It’s dead. Let it die. We start over.”
Ace throws his head back in the chair,
mumbling—
“…Shoulda lit up before walking in here.”
Diggs reaches for the notebook on the coffee table, and I snatch it first before he can set fire to it.
It’s a mess, yeah. But not a total loss.
“We’re keeping this one.”
I tap my pen against the page?—
“‘I’m walking through the wreck you made of me.’”
It’s the only line that feels like a bruise.
“We need the feeling that makes people want to tattoo it on their ribcage.”
My mind’s spinning.
Not because of Andrew?—
(Don’t fuckin’ start that shit.)
It’s been seventeen hours since I left him on the terrace.
And no?—
