Love Will Burn Out

I heard our song played live at a rock festival in Japan and I cried. Not because I miss you, god knows I don’t. But it reminded me there was good in our relationship. I buried the good deep because it was easier. It was so much easier to just hate everything about us and move on from there. But that wasn’t really fair. Like a broken magnet, it was easier to keep the good separate from the bad, to let them push each other away. But despite the pain, there were happy moments. Like listening to that Jon Bellion album and eating homemade stromboli before going to a Call of Duty tournament. Or the countless hours on various couches playing games and laughing with each other about absolute nonsense. Or the game nights with your parents and brother that I somehow always lost. Or our awkward first date and kiss in my car overlooking the ocean in “our spot”. Or the shared friends and board game parties I held at my apartment to try and get over my social anxiety. Or softly singing to each other in moments of deeply felt vulnerability. Or how you softly pushed me towards more creative outlets and helped me find my passions. Or how supportive you were when I was severely depressed. Or that night you stayed in the hospital with me because I was terrified.

I heard our song and I cried because it reminded me of the version of our song I was writing for our fourth anniversary. Of the footage I had from random videos over the years of you laughing or saying something silly that was going to be the music video. Of the note I still have on my phone with the lyrics rewritten to be more apt to our experience. Of the cassette mixtape I made as an opening night gift right before you cheated on me. Of all the pain in that small Pennsylvania town. Of you falling asleep before even listening to the tape. Of that one Quinn XCII song i listened to in the storm when i couldn’t tell the rain drops from my tears.

I heard our song, which was our song for over three years. The song that got me through the hardest times in our relationship. When I briefly took singing lessons, I took them to be able to sing that song better for you. It was constantly in heavy rotation on my phone. When you first told me you weren’t attracted to me, I held on to that song. I clutched it close to my heart, willing the words to be true, to take me back to a time when they were. I forced myself to believe them and accept the false hope they gave me. Whenever we were apart, I played that song to remind me that soon we’d be together again. That things would always be better when we were.

I heard our song and I cried. But then, a few hours later I heard our breakup song. I’m still surprised they played it, it’s not their most popular song. It’s not even my favorite song on that album, but it’s the most accurate. I cried again, but this time it was cathartic. My heart felt better. Like it was finally ready to accept the good with the bad. The two pieces of the magnet were ready to come back together. I’ve gone through a lot since we broke up, and I like to think I’ve grown a lot. I don’t know if you’d recognize me anymore. My hair is pink now, though something tells me I’m not getting a congrats text this time.

I heard our breakup song and remembered past breakups. For every relationship, I’ve had a song, and I've had a breakup album. music has always helped me understand the world, especially when the world seems to make the least amount of sense to me. It's most often been the tape to put the pieces of my broken world back together. Lots of memories for me are fuzzy, especially around high school, but the first breakup album I remember is Linkin Park’s LIVING THINGS. I adore Linkin Park, and I’m not afraid to admit it. They were my favorite band for most of my life, and I will defend them until the day I die. LIVING THINGS is a fairly angry album; or at least, the way I interpreted it for that relationship was pretty angry. All I got out of it was a “fuck you” vibe since I didn’t have the emotional complexity at the time to appreciate any other kind of message.

I heard our breakup song, which was off our real breakup album. I had a false start with finding ours. The first one I found was Uninvited by Call Me Karizma, an angry hip-hop album about being cheated on. Pretty accurate, right? I thought so at first, but it fell flat because it didn’t capture everything I felt. It certainly captured the loudest part of my feelings, but not the whole of them. I knew when I found the real one instantly. Dirty Projectors’ self titled album (Dirty Projectors) is a lot of things. What struck me the most is that it’s an honest breakup album about a complex relationship. David Longstreth manages to celebrate the relationship and discuss his emotions in an incredibly honest and raw way. He captured the friction better than I’ve ever heard. The album’s haunting sound reflected the haunting death of our love. Some of the more vengeful lyrics made me smile thinking of saying them to you ("What I want from art is truth/What you want is fame"). The sometimes inconsistent vibe of the songs mirrored my shifting feelings. The powerful horns and initial optimism of “Up in Hudson” contrasted with the sadness of the story represented the extreme ups and downs of our relationship. The harsh lines of “Keep Your Name” consistently felt like wonderful jabs at your worldview. “Winner Take Nothing” exposed the truth about the fruitlessness of our constant bickering. “Little Bubble” acknowledged the happiness we felt at one point, and how we leaned on that to avoid dealing with the sadness. I could go on and on and talk about that album for significantly longer than its runtime, something I know would annoy you.

I heard our breakup song, and I knew I was fully over you. I'm not saying that to convince everyone else, but just to say it. It’s like forgiving someone you’ll never speak to again. I’m not sure I could’ve gotten past you without the album. I know we were a lot of things, but now we are over. “We’re keeping separate, and you’ll keep your name,” and that’s okay.