I sort things out — between glass and my verses, despotic relations, plastic and far from organic. I wonder if love is recyclable, or if it’s built to last. With all those throwaway words, and biodegradable promises. We sort our waste, but not our thoughts, we compost the planet, not our faults. There’s more guidance on bottles than on the mouths we kiss halfway. We sort the plastic, not the politics, we like the drama, we sort the clicks. Selective sorting of emotions — everything ends up in illusion’s bin. Chorus: Selective sorting, collective void. Selective sorting, emotional noise. I sort through my silences, the ones that weigh more than my words. I throw away the expectations, keep the nuance, the “I’m fine” said way too loud. I sort my anger, recycle my joy, don’t know if I should throw you out or keep you — be honest. Everything recycles, even the pain, even the “I love you’s” we chain again. Chorus: Selective sorting, collective void. Selective sorting, emotional noise. Chorus (final): Selective sorting, collective void. Selective sorting, emotional noise. We sort out everything — but the essential.
