4:13 Dream.
A CD burned up in flames. In that CD held a year’s worth of memories, thirteen songs that had meant something to someone. Maybe to two persons, but he never was sure she listened to it as much as he did. He had it on everywhere he went, on and on, 4:13 Dream. It was a wonder. Magic made real with a soundtrack that followed them on repeat so it would never end, and he feared that the same old songs may have held its toll on her. Just repeating, no matter how beautiful the sorrowful melodies, how heartfelt Robert Smith’s lyrics were. How upbeat the album lifted it would always pull her back down into a hanging noose.
‘Oh I love what you do with my heart’, and he started his romance. Giving her flowers when he first met her, hoping the lilacs would show how sincere his intentions were with her, not unlike anyone else he’s been with before. Flowers she thought, only a guilty man buys flowers. It wasn’t the gesture he had hoped it would be, but in her secret mind, in her gut she kept her doubts sealed.
‘I love what you do to my bones’. She loved these lyrics. She related to them. She found someone who fit her like a jigsaw piece, physical peace and glory, sensation without sensationalism. It was right, she trusted him and she didn’t want anything more.
‘I’m falling through the sky’ played has they flew to Barcelona, then to Bordeaux. They were finding culture in each other. Latching on to a feeling they had never felt before. Red wine, fine cheeses, it was cliché, it was romance, it was one of a kind, once in a life time, irreplaceable; falling into the heavens.
‘Your losing me, I’m sure to change’. He would repeat over and over as she left him. He knew why. And he sang the song, knowing that every line he spoke, if it were his words. Would only be lies.
‘The world was far away, I was the ship’, as they had their first meal. They wondered if they’re friends would be jealous. They promised they wouldn’t go online to check, they wanted to be surprised when they came back, to be able to give stories, to have stories to tell. They promised they’d go on holiday every chance they could. Walking the narrow streets of Barcelona, they held hands, she laughed with him. He laughed with her.
‘You’ve got what I want’. It was tragic really. The song played first when she met him, then when she met the new man in her life. Months after he left him. Thirteen tracks, thirteen? Why did it have to be thirteen? She felt she was above prosaism tropes.
‘Even if we turn more to most we never satisfy the hungry ghost’, he felt as she drifted out the window on the long drives. He was losing her interest, no antidotes, no witty quirk could quickly pull her back into his reach. He left it on, the songs would play, hopefully it would put them put if a perpetual trance, a form of meditation that would relinquish their stalemate heart ache.
‘Sick of being alone with myself’, it hit her hard. Her greatest fear was what was on the other side of the gate, looking out of the window she watched as all the cars drove pass. She wanted loneliness but wasn’t strong enough to grab hold of it and take comfort within its hold.
‘If it was meant to be us it was meant to be now’, yet it wasn’t. And as the car stopped, she walked out. A kiss goodbye and it was final. He went home, and that CD that he played till death in his car he coated in lighter fuel and set it alight.
‘Oh I love what you do with my heart’, and he started his romance. Giving her flowers when he first met her, hoping the lilacs would show how sincere his intentions were with her, not unlike anyone else he’s been with before. Flowers she thought, only a guilty man buys flowers. It wasn’t the gesture he had hoped it would be, but in her secret mind, in her gut she kept her doubts sealed.
‘I love what you do to my bones’. She loved these lyrics. She related to them. She found someone who fit her like a jigsaw piece, physical peace and glory, sensation without sensationalism. It was right, she trusted him and she didn’t want anything more.
‘I’m falling through the sky’ played has they flew to Barcelona, then to Bordeaux. They were finding culture in each other. Latching on to a feeling they had never felt before. Red wine, fine cheeses, it was cliché, it was romance, it was one of a kind, once in a life time, irreplaceable; falling into the heavens.
‘Your losing me, I’m sure to change’. He would repeat over and over as she left him. He knew why. And he sang the song, knowing that every line he spoke, if it were his words. Would only be lies.
‘The world was far away, I was the ship’, as they had their first meal. They wondered if they’re friends would be jealous. They promised they wouldn’t go online to check, they wanted to be surprised when they came back, to be able to give stories, to have stories to tell. They promised they’d go on holiday every chance they could. Walking the narrow streets of Barcelona, they held hands, she laughed with him. He laughed with her.
‘You’ve got what I want’. It was tragic really. The song played first when she met him, then when she met the new man in her life. Months after he left him. Thirteen tracks, thirteen? Why did it have to be thirteen? She felt she was above prosaism tropes.
‘Even if we turn more to most we never satisfy the hungry ghost’, he felt as she drifted out the window on the long drives. He was losing her interest, no antidotes, no witty quirk could quickly pull her back into his reach. He left it on, the songs would play, hopefully it would put them put if a perpetual trance, a form of meditation that would relinquish their stalemate heart ache.
‘Sick of being alone with myself’, it hit her hard. Her greatest fear was what was on the other side of the gate, looking out of the window she watched as all the cars drove pass. She wanted loneliness but wasn’t strong enough to grab hold of it and take comfort within its hold.
‘If it was meant to be us it was meant to be now’, yet it wasn’t. And as the car stopped, she walked out. A kiss goodbye and it was final. He went home, and that CD that he played till death in his car he coated in lighter fuel and set it alight.
But he still dreamed.
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