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jordaan mason & their orchestra - no more metaphor كلمات الأغنية

i still recall every moment, the aura of the room after he’d left it
the smell of him on my bedsheets, his after_work stench that he’d leave
he had that messy smile that made the metaphors all suddenly make sense
i thought we were in love, but he said “please stop naming it”
now the snot trails he left crying on my favourite shirt are dry and
i lost it years after to another boy who triеd and tried
to seek out odds and ends and trainwrecks, hе said he was unable
to be so in love so young, so he left but i stayed grateful

there’s a shape in the bed where your body used to be, i don’t know how else to describe it
maybe shake me violent, more violent, maybe leave the stove hot
maybe horses couldn’t pull me away even though they should have
have i let a metaphor become a crutch to keep me up
when a scar is what gets carved into you so that you’ll remember next time
as i dig for novels, vowels, verses, ways to be quiet without silence
replacing syllables with the history i used to know
night rearranged and the dreams came back, animal boy blue moved in and out of rooms
like he’d never left my head, like everything he ever said
had stayed with me in my body, echoing like a melody
“why do you _n_lyze so much, doesn’t your head ever stop?”
the dreams are getting worse, they stay thick and heavy hours after
you say words like love and laughter, words like holy and forever
i wake up and i look through every line in every book
i gravitate to the same page, it says: “your body will never be familiar”

as we scatter randomly, the details become dull and colourless
but i know there were never enough warm blankets in her house
so i slept under the coats, curled into a ball, waiting for morning
waiting for a warning but life gives you no warnings, things just change
i took a bus to another town, she left for the coast to become a ghost
or at least that’s what she became to me, someone i only see when i go to sleep
but even when it’s a bad dream, it’s always nice to see you, dear

and so we sing and swing on tree branches, we have no patterns or lines
or time signatures, just vaseline and vinegar
kissing in the practice room, i remember a time when once you used to love me
in the garden so briefly, “hey it’s not the end of the world”
no one said anything as we gathered again for a last sunrise
we couldn’t find words for goodbyes, some of us laughed some of us cried
distance is the same as time, it distorts as it defines
i don’t care if i’m remembering wrong but your eyes were never bluer then
the earth hums with an ache that it carries, drowning out our tiny bodies
while we beg for a meteor or a messenger or at least a word
or at least a way to get through the day, and the night too, even if they
are not the same for both of us, so we grasp and clutch to the ones we trust
and let’s get drunk on our favourite colours, waste our way through another summer
then go off on our separate ways, living separate lives again
maybe things just come and go, isn’t that what started this

(do you think wounded people can help wounded people
maybe wounded people can’t help wounded people
maybe wounded people can help wounded people
maybe wounded people can’t help wounded people
maybe wounded people can help wounded people
maybe wounded people can’t help wounded people
maybe its just like she said: “we’re all the same different people”)

- jordaan mason their orchestra

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