Aesthetic Ruin: Chris Raines: This Is Not A Love Song

Song made with suno for one of my stories 'Do Not Engage - Do Not Fall In Love With A Rock Star' :) It honestly won't make any sense if you haven't read the story

Don’t read into this—
It’s just chords and noise,
A throwaway riff, a backstage voice.
Not about your eyes, or the way you leave tea to steep too long.
It’s distortion. Not devotion.
So don’t get it wrong.

It’s not about the night you stayed,
While the world wrote me off in red ink.
Not about your hand on my back
When I forgot how to think.
It’s just feedback. Just static.
Not the shape of your name in my mouth.

No metaphors here, no secret lines—
That’s not your laugh in the second verse, right?
Just some ghost in the mix, nothing real.
Just a soundcheck of something I don’t want to feel.

This is not a love song, this is not your track.
Not a coded confession, no looking back.
It’s not stitched from your T-shirt, not lit like your stare.
It’s just power chords bleeding through stale London air.
So don’t start crying, don’t sing along—
It’s not yours.
It’s not ours.
It’s not a love song.

It’s not about how you never flinch,
Even when the flashbulbs lie.
Not about your texts at 3am,
Or how you taught me how to cry.
It’s a banger. A rager.
It’s tour chaos and sweat.
It’s not the way I miss you in silence.
I forget.

No rose-coloured filter, no hearts in the dark—
That’s not your outline on the album art.
If you hear something soft in the middle eight—
It’s not you.
It’s just fate.

This is not a love song, this is not your track.
Not a shrine in sound, no tethered pact.
It’s not wired to your pulse, not shaped like your name.
Just a scream in a bottle, not playing that game.
So don’t lean closer, don’t mouth the lines—
It’s not yours.
It’s not mine.
It’s not a love song.

I don’t write you down.
I don’t sing you out.
I don’t trace your spine in guitar feedback and doubt.
I don’t miss your face in the crowd, right now.

This is not a love song—don’t let it in.
Not carved in your rhythm, not soft on the skin.
It’s just thunder. Just burn. Just stage-light and smoke.
Not a promise.
Not a hope.
Just a joke.

…But if you hum it at night, I won’t stop you.