the leavers dance

i remember one night, flickering through spotify, making a playlist that once would have been a mixtape or not as far back, perhaps a CD? i was careful with each song – it had to make me feel what i was feeling, amplified. i had to keep the genre, cardigan-wearing versus slashing guitars or men wearing more make-up than i did. it had a purpose and that purpose would have been lost with the elements of what i often listened to, with heavily painted black eyelids & many glasses of red wine. i did not want it to sound like fingernails scratching naked skin; i was looking for what love sounded like when the sun was going down (not what it forebode in yellow candle light). it took me hours, but when i listened to it when it was completed, i knew i had a propensity for finding the right song for the “right” person. it left tender spots behind. spots that i allowed to be exploited. “remember being young and knowing that you were in love based on nothing besides how your smile lingered even after you hung up the phone. that song that came on the radio that you did not even know you knew the lyrics to & you sang softly to yourself and thought, “man, this is going to suck coming down from”.” yeah.
You should have stuck with what you knew – scratchy synth shapes with dirty&stringy dyed black hair boys that know your pain. You left the pretty ballads to those girls that were gifted with smiles that were not contrived. Those girls that do not even know that they are privileged because they have always had everything. They think life is just like that.
You did nothing wrong, of course. This is just how your story was written.