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I know it wasn’t a date, but I still swooned when I found your playlist in inide lo-fi typewritten letters, wrapped with chemistry notes. It only makes sense that a collection of songs be my new standard for a first impression on any romantic endeavours.
This became my battle cry. The BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM of the toms that compel my body to heave when I’m pretending to sing those harmonies to an empty sky.
I can trace moments of my past through your music; summer days spent with a Girlfriend’s Dog, a hopeless infatuation with auf der Maur’s Celebrity Skin, tinny speakers blasting Porno Mouth in the room where I lost my virginity on a soft single bed that seemed a huge canvas to our naked bodies. Maybe that’s why you already understood so much of me. It’s like we’re different landscapes represented using the same cartography.
