| …and I just ended up and sitting down and writing it one day. |
| And it was
|
| perfect too ‘cause it was the very end of this notebook
|
| And so there was something that I was like… I tried to- I think- give myself
|
| that sense of closure. |
| Uhm
|
| So… I guess…
|
| Context to the like, the first day, like. |
| Like anything somewhat…
|
| romantic happened between us, its was- there was a thunder storm… going on.
|
| And it was just like- we were just sitting there like. |
| Just watching it. |
| Like.
|
| No, it was- I was very- yeah, like, we were just sitting there on his porch or
|
| like, like. |
| Or inside. |
| And just like, watching the thunder storm come in
|
| And yeah, so that was- yeah, so like…
|
| So yeah. |
| Giving that context. |
| Uhm
|
| You were a summer thunderstorm on my draught of golden sunshine days
|
| Your rain and light show made me dance in ways I never had before- and oh how
|
| glorious it was
|
| But it wasn’t until you left and I looked up, the fire was burning at my
|
| wildflowers, that I understood that you were not the right storm for me
|
| (Although
|
| And then I was like, «Oh but maybe it says this,» so I put a half of a
|
| parentheses here, expecting me to like… finish it off and be like.
|
| «Oh, I could write- replace this instead of this ‘cause this is like how my
|
| brain edits as I’m writing. |
| But I never closed this parentheses and kind of
|
| went from here
|
| So this is like. |
| This is why I’m explaining why it doesn’t make sense
|
| Your rain did not quench my thirst, but oh, how I danced
|
| Swaying and leaping in new ways I never thought possible
|
| Drenched, and with my eyes and arms turns toward- turned toward the sky
|
| I begged for more of the light show and beat- and, and bone- haking beat that
|
| were distracting me from the fire scorching my already parched wildflowers
|
| It wasn’t until you left, with me chasing after you, that I finally looked
|
| around and felt the depth of your destruction
|
| And there I sat, soaked to the bone, in a smoldering field of wildflowers,
|
| trying to water the earth and bring them back to life with my tears that were
|
| locked somewhere deep within me
|
| As my wildflowers started to wilt, I looked around again and I realized that I
|
| was utterly alone
|
| So I took my flowers in my arms
|
| But as I- but as I touched them, they crumpled and turned brown,
|
| disappearing the more I tried to hold onto them
|
| Desperation, I finally plucked them, roots and all from the earth
|
| I could no longer hold them
|
| …and I just ended up and sitting down and writing it one day. |
| And it was
|
| perfect too ‘cause it was the very end of this notebook. |
| And so there was
|
| something that I was like… I tried to- I think- give myself that sense of
|
| closure… |