Lay's Mixtape
The Twelve Short Stories of Exomas
Each beat of my pumping heart is added into the song. The song I had composed for you. Completely mixed to fit your image.
Something that could describe you. Something you could hear everyday.
A part of me.
My fingers scramble across the keyboard and I list every note. The sound of the pencil scratching the thin paper becomes a part of my song.
But not even that seemed like enough to complete it. Every time I play a note, it sounds flat. Every time I place my finger on the key, it sounds imperfect.
Because nothing can be compared to you. Not even the sound of my soul.
Even though I can hear the emptiness of my complete record, I can do nothing but hope you will accept it. I hoped you would listen carefully to see if you could hear my fingers pressing down the keys every time I thought of the next note.
The CD that I put my heart into is all that I can give you. And this season, it's nothing you want. Nothing you need. Nothing that would ever fulfill you.
An empty sigh seethes between my teeth.
Please accept me once more... I need you... I love you...
But is this love? I wish I knew...
Rather than staying here and pondering the thought, I will wrap this up to send to you.
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