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To Finn, with our regrets. Don’t look now. No, don’t look back. A little fester, a little rot, and a grim souvenir post-dated from future haunts. Because we did. We once swam in the sea. It’s tough, I know, to believe. To conceive. But there were days we dove headfirst into waves. Days we let the sun melt the skin right from our face. Oh! But now we’re dancing on graves. We’re dancing straight to hell. We’re singing the songs that belong to a minor scale. Days it seemed we were a bit more free to kiss with spit, to kiss goodbye what remained of bees. When the edge between our winter and spring didn’t always slip right by so seamlessly. But now we’re dancing on graves. We’re dancing straight to hell. We’re singing the songs that belong to a minor scale. But now we’re dancing on graves. We’re dancing straight to hell. We’re singing the songs that belong to regretful keys and minor scales. I remember the rain, and I remember the smell of the dirt, of the pavement, whenever it once fell. Yeah, we once dove straight into the sea. Headfirst and headstrong and hopefully. Choking on oil. Awash in the sun. With ultraviolet skin and particulate lungs. Those were the days we lived in bliss. When the places we loved weren’t yet the places we missed. And we never cried. We felt no pain. And we danced all night under acid rain. And we never cried. We felt no pain. We doused your parents in that cheap champagne. And we went dancing on graves. We danced straight to hell. We went dancing on graves, for days, ’til we had danced ourselves into that soil. And the songs we all sang... And the toasts we raised... As the sun set that day on our naiveté. As if the damage wasn’t already done. Like all that mattered was the truest love.