Swipe Left On Perfection

I lost my voice in the afterglow of bass,
Subtronics stitching madness into midnight music,
drops carving vowels out of me until my mouth held only thunder.

By morning—Voiceless, blankets, soft light on the wall—
I lay still, taken care of like a vinyl in velvet,
coffee cooled on the nightstand, laughter at the door,
and somehow it was the best day ever:
quiet, held, a chorus of kindness hummed at low volume.

Gratitude arrived like a calm beat between songs—
a hand on the forehead, the right text, the gentle taste of Denica’s,
the sweet permission to heal slower than the crowd moves.
Healing, I learned, has its own BPM:
not rushed, not late—just true.

When the old aches pressed play on memory,
I replayed the words my favorite artist spoke—
let them go—an echo that rewired the room.
I can never unhear it.
Jesse was right.

Choose friends who will critique you,
who see the pulse of potential you can’t hear in your own chest,
who slice the silence so your voice can return stronger.
And if they don’t appreciate your truth, cut them off—
the ones who only clap for the polished parts,
who love the echo but not the note.
Keep the people who push you past comfortable.

Now the spoon finds passion fruit mousse—
golden, bright as sunrise on a festival wristband.
I don’t wish we could share it anymore.
I eat it happily, everyday if I want,
and send your memory a blessing in your new timeline,
like a balloon released into sky after the set ends,
drifting toward another city of sound.

Then I turn back to mine:
a room, a bed, a throat learning song again,
gratitude cupped in both hands,
healing stitched through every beat.
Proud of the road behind me—its potholes, its glitter, its rain—
and proud of where my feet land now,
soft, sure, ready for the next drop.
My voice returns—rasp to river, whisper to wave—
and I am here, fully here,
bright as passion fruit, steady as bass,
alive in my own timeline,
unafraid to let go,
unafraid to go on.