So you’re a guy, and your heart aches. Your woman has done you wrong with a new man. And she’s your woman. But she’s done you wrong.
It’s the wine-bread-cheese eternal triangle of your heart, but you’ve heard that the new cheese was indigestible: he’s history.
It’s summer. It’s the parody of a summer day. Your skin feels alive. There’s pollen in the air. A butterfly lands on your hand, and you feel open and emotional, but exhausted.
You lie down on the grass, and you close your eyes, and there she is. You can feel the sun behind her.
She sounds like smoke. As real as oak. She’s raw, and hitting you deep in the chest. And she’s sorry. She’s so sorry.
She is remorse. She is self-hatred. She loves fake, shiny things. She’s a fool. She uses strong language; it sounds nice.
Inbetween the sorries, she sneaks in a refrain, ‘He’ll never be like you’.
It’s different to the body of what she’s saying. She hopes it will enter you like a subliminal message. It’s an insistent feminine whisper. It makes her sound desperate. It’s full of her breath, and it’s breathless.
And you can’t deny that you need to hear it.
Then something else comes into the summer softness, and it’s not a butterfly, or stray bunting on the wind.
It’s a powerful, great, thwumping shot of mixed emotions.
A heavy, resonating beat set that stirs you up.
With it, she’s reminding you of the sex, and the shouts, and the disappointments. It’s when she put her head on your lap on the plane. And the shame you shared with her. And the cups of tea. And the laughing. Her scarf. Your energy.
It’s all flooding in and mixing with her justification, her pleads for reassurance.
And there are different flavours in this emotion she’s stirring up behind her words. Rhythmical. Grounding. Skittish. They converge in your veins. You feel warm.
At 1.23 she pushes a bruise, and it’s a beautiful pain. It’s a discordant memory- something a bit off, or bittersweet, that you don’t want to remember. But you’d hate to not remember.
And she’s missing you. She made a mistake. She’s human. Can you feel that? Are you buying it? Is she getting through?
With this heat, and these deep, resonating flashes of her eyes, and this betrayal.
Then, she freezes the powerful memories to concentrate.
This is it. This is the pitch.
Just her, haloed in the sun, with her hands tight around your heart.
‘I’m falling on my knees, forgive me, I’m a fuckin’ fool.
I’m beggin’ darlin’, please, absolve me of my sins, won’t you?’
She’s making you God, with the power to forgive. A sad, little boyfriend God she knocked down.
And only you can raise yourself, with her words echoing around in your broken head.
But back first with the powerful jolts behind her plaintive voice. Don’t forget the first breakfast I made you. Remember the taste of me.
Not as words, but as beats of memory.
(‘HE’LL NEVER BE LIKE YOU.’)
Time now to open up the cause: the past, the breeze, the people playing catch nearby.
All things coming together to press on your soul.
Don’t let her go- your flawed, full, smokey, oak love.
Then a tiny crash, as she disappears. A broken pane.
And you’re sitting back up in the luminous day, with no thing pressing on your senses.
Just the heat of the rays on the green under your fingers.
No more flooding, by the rivers of feeling.
And she’s your woman, but she done you wrong.
And you’re on the grass in the summer, on your stony own.