it’s strange, nightingale….
i’ve refused to buy a new floppy for twenty damned years
and instead, preferred to delete you slowly,
song by song.
it’s taken me around twenty years,
but, you’re gone from storage.
i’m not sad, really, but it’s a reminder that nothing lasts, really,
and for me,
divinity is the trinity,
and, for me, the trinity is a silver wall.
i’ve used it for climbing, dangling my feet, stargazing, walking, praying, loving, vogueing…
and i’m taking proper care to store all of that shit carefully.
the things i didn’t think i could do without you.
you are my jack to the rose, and i know you’ve drowned.
it hurts to think of you in that freezing ice, but i know you don’t have to feel anything, so i can’t blame you entirely…
though i know you should be flying; so many circumstances i couldn’t control.
i tried to hold on. but you let go.
you let go and you fucking gave up.
so i had to erase them.
i hope you understand; i mean, i know you do.
i’m not sad. i’m just…kinda torn up a little.
maybe just fragile. maybe just survivor’s guilt, like they call it.
but when my disk is full, again, which it almost is,
i promise i will intentionally save all of my own and
go buy a new fucking floppy so I can make some more.
and one of my files will be called, “nightingale.”