Pensé

When the pain subsides, a peculiar emptiness remains - not a dark one, but one with a faint scent of whisky and a muffled echo of unspoken words. There is no room for drama in it: only a calm realisation that it is over, and that it is even for the best. The music seems to laugh through gritted teeth at the very notion of ‘suffering for an ex’ - because how long can you go on? It was, it's gone, we've forgotten. Well, almost. Sometimes memory still slips in a face in a glass, but now it's just a habit, not a wound. It's a kind of growing up to the rhythm, where sadness is not a burden, but a style.