We were little paper aeroplanes off across the sea
Like fireworks on rooftop ledges when you were here with me
We’re reactionary pyrotechnics, we flutter violently in the wind
But at transatlantic distances, we’re practised, permanent, perfect.
Love meant mighty airliners bound for far-off destinations
Carmine-kissed promises whispered through telephone receivers
And thirteen-point Helvetica on instant messenger screens
Or hurried script on ink-stained letters, stained with fabricated sheens.
And every day, I’d tell you through glitching cacophonies
Of mundane occurrences and brilliant odysseys
And we’d smile and laugh and talk passionately like waves
And we’d promise that the distance wouldn’t keep us away.
So why is it, then, so difficult to talk?
Are we no longer so enthralled?
When we find ourselves separated by the mere paper of our walls?
Atomised, we’re aliens, strangers from afar
And I don’t know how to love, to connect, to see you as you are.
And then everybody was gone
Parachutes was still on
I thought I saw you in the rain, your face marked with doubt
Now, I only think about Seattle when the sound kicks out.
You said it would be painless.
You didn’t warn me of the fall.
You said it would be painless.
It wasn’t that at all.
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