Even after all, I still believe in love stories.
We were already thunder and lightning,
a terrifyingly — beautiful disruption to this Earth and sky.
We were the storm that never cleared.
Just as if we were locked inside this foolish fuckery — we waited in vain in our straw house full of flames, orchestrating our own heartbreak — knowing nobody ever made a home out of a burning building.
In this house party for two, soft hearts like the ones in you and me,
have a long history of making bad decisions —
dismissing the bitter whilst taken over by the sweetest flushes of love.
Falling up in love is just as breathtaking as the fall down.
Either way — there’s an explosion of emotions on a collision course,
a storm show of lights splattered across the sky together only to fall to Earth apart.
I think about this love all the time,
such a curious misadventure, a paradox of breathing and grieving
through the loss of vital parts of yourself.
But love has yet to ask me to think, it beds down in my soul demanding I feel everything and let it burn — whilst it does away with the affliction of logic.
After all, with our flames exposed to the wind,
what remained of the heaviness in our bones —
was swept away like fine ash.
But life dictates, the story continues.
Just like a long song — the bridge is not where it ends.
There is always an after-party after the party somewhere beyond the storm — where perhaps ‘the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire!’