Sparsile

Fall for Your Type

She didn’t care that the song wasn’t perfect.

The lyrics didn’t fit her situation exactly; there was no misplaced affection, no loss of faith, or trivial lover’s spat.

But what she did like was the low, slow beat and the despair that laced his steady voice. It was a voice that was well versed in sadness; one that hinted of a life of pining and disappointment. She could feel the hurt drip honey-like from each syllable, oozing in the crevices of each word, and glazing each line and every verse with a bittersweet pain that twisted and groped at her heart. It was a song that reminded her of her loneliness and caused the downturned corners of her mouth to twitch, but it also made her burn inside with life.

With each repeat of the song, she could feel the expanse widen in her chest and the heavy emptiness contaminate every corner of her being, weighing down her body with leaden longing—-the seemingly contradictory experience of simultaneously feeling nothing and everything. It was self-indulgent, self-destructive, and she knew it. But she didn’t care. She laid in bed and played the song again and again, until it was well worn and stripped of its heartaches. It felt good. It felt.