This song was a tough one to write. It’s about a woman I’ve loved more deeply than anyone else in my life—my kryptonite.
The song’s journey started a few years back when I first came up with the riff. At the time, I was working on it with her singing on it. But after things fell apart between us, returning to the song became a struggle. Every time I tried to work on it, I could hear her voice in my head, and it was like a wall I couldn’t get past.
Eventually, I realized that the only way to move forward was to lean into it. Instead of trying to block her out, I decided to write the song about her.
She had been everything to me—the stars, the moon, the sun. And I was the moth, inevitably drawn to my own destruction. Oh, and did I mention this was after our second attempt at being together? Spoiler: it didn’t work out. But when she loved you, it was like the sun shining down on just you. That kind of warmth and light felt undeniable.
So, the leap to the Icarus metaphor wasn’t a big stretch. She was my sun, and I flew too close.
Once I knew what I was writing about, the words came pouring out. It was incredibly cathartic to channel all those feelings into the song—love, heartbreak, longing, and acceptance. In a way, it helped me process everything I was holding onto.
And, in a move that might’ve been a little petty (but also kind of funny), I decided to release the song on her birthday. What can I say? Sometimes art and life intersect in unexpected ways.
This song remains one of the most personal I’ve ever written. It’s a reminder of a love that burned too brightly and the lessons that came with it. I still feel the weight of it when I perform it live, but that’s part of what makes it so meaningful.