𝑨 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝑻𝒐 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑽𝒐𝒊𝒅 [ 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑑 ]

Untuning

The song from my favorite Disney movie did not galvanize the red strings of my heart anymore. It felt more like a beastly mantra. It has been on my playlist - on repeat but my ears could not hear the silent little joy that it has given me ages ago. Perhaps, I got immuned with the dulcet melodies and with the ballad's old hazy beat. I wanted to get rid of it but everytime my hands would tempt to make it vanish into thin air, I would find my insides begging me not to : as if it's the only thing that was constantly making me live and without it, as if I would die. The words of it did not soothe me anymore, rather it would make a hard whip on me, making my soule behave uncontrollably like a youngling crying on one of the busy streets of London: unheard.

You see, I loathed it, but perhaps, the reason why I could not stop listening to it was because regardless of how melancholic it sounded to me, it could take me back to the good old days of us, back to the nights of poetry and songs and cuddles and the seafoam whispers and soul kisses; back to the forenoon lovers soaked to our very almost universe.

We used to play the song- along with the bridge, you would then turn off the lights from my antique lampshade and would ask me to dance with you. Dark room with just the song molding our sentiments in one. Our little domicile has given us that romantic ambience and I badly wanted the time to stop, my heart wanted to live in there forever. It was the same old song that we kept playing on our late night drives along the streets of Las Vegas; it made us feel free and untamed. Along with the song, the beating of my loud throbbing heart accompanied its beat while your eyes were locked on me, making me feel as if I was a masterpiece fashioned by the only artisan painter that you adore, Van Gogh.

Just to distract myself from trying to stop it playing from the cassette that we bought on an antediluvian store in Paris, I would spend my time writing conceits in poetry on my headboard, trying to go back to where we did wrong.

My love, where?

The song was a five minute play, but I have written five thousand proses and broken poems about it and about us, trying to pin-point where we did wrong.

Did you get tired dancing with me? Because if you did, we could just change the song.

We could have stopped it from playing.

We could, but we didn't.