-indie discography

good grief - bastille

now you'll be missing from the photographs / missing from the photographs

—dan cannot bear to continue reading the rest of the letter she left him. he can't even get past the words "dear, daniel campbell smith" written in her perfectly spaced handwriting. as much as he wants to know what was going through her head before her last moments, looking at her handwriting makes his breath catch in his lungs and his eyes begin to water. he doesn't know why he thinks of this now, but he realises that she'll be gone from any more photos: celebratory, candid, professional, funny, silly, sad, ironic, sarcastic. he'll only have the old photographs which will remind him of good times and of bad, but they ultimately remind him of a life with her and now all the future photographs will be of a life without her--and this is what makes him shed his first agonising tears.

watching through my fingers / watching through my fingers

—dan never read the letter before her funeral day. the thought of her constantly plagues his mind and leaves him in even more agonizing tears that blemishes his pillowcase wet as he attempts to fall asleep without her in his arms. her funeral is morbidly beautiful. as she requested, no one wore black and they celebrate her life. dan wears her favourite patterned sweater of his underneath the denim jacket he wore when they first met. but the moment dan hears the door open to signal the pallbearers' entrance, his hands fly to his face to hide his tears. he didn't want to be a pallbearer because he knew he couldn't carry the weight of his dead love; his knees would have buckled and his breathing would have stopped and ultimately ruin the funeral. the entire time during her funeral, his face is buried in his hands. during his eulogy, everyone can see his bloodshot, swollen eyes; his trembling hands; pallid face. when he returns to his seat next to her mother, who holds him tightly, he hides behinds his hands again. the very hands that have written her down and let her live forever in his music.

what's going to be left of the world if you're not in it?

—it has been exactly four days since her burial and three weeks after the date of her death. the wound is still fresh for dan. he could no longer push away the responsibility of sorting through her belongings. he touches one article of her clothing, her favourite black varsity jacket, and the tears come flooding again. every time his pen touches the paper, no ink flows, just tears. his muse is gone and he can't think of anything to write. he just feels, and the feelings are trapped. he's lost the taste of the food he makes, the food he used to make for her, even though her cooking was far better tasting because it tasted like home and love. the flat feels empty without her cheerful vibes. there's a part of dan missing and he can't replace it. the world is a cold, hard shell, and he feels so alone. nothing feels the same.

cause every minute and every hour / i miss you, i miss you, i miss you more

—it has been a hundred and seventeen days since her death. dan still misses her more than ever, but he can finally say her name without tasting bitterness and salt from the tears. now the taste behind her name is like a splash of summertime berries, fresh rain, and crisp autumn wind. the flat still has her lingering scent of peppermints mixed with cinnamon. the bed is still fairly empty without her petite body stealing all the blankets, searching for warmth even though she had his arms. the flat is slightly messy because she isn't there to constantly move things back into a more comfortable place. each day is a reminder that she's no longer here with him. but he knows that she would want him to be happy, so he tries to live each day for her, because a piece of her will always live within him.