Poetry &
Song Lyrics

We were so close to something permanent
that I could taste the years ahead of us —
Sunday mornings, cold coffee, your laugh
echoing through rooms we hadn't rented yet.

But almost is the cruelest architecture.
It builds a house you'll never live in
and leaves the lights on
so you always see what you're missing.

[Verse 1]

I've been driving through the static
trying to find your frequency
every station plays our story
in a key that's killing me

[Chorus]

Send me a midnight signal
something to break the noise
I'll follow the faintest whisper
back to the sound of your voice

I didn't lose you all at once.
It was a controlled burn —
slow, deliberate, almost kind
in how it took everything.

First the small touches disappeared.
Then the long conversations.
Then the way you'd say my name
like it was a place you wanted to stay.

By the end, I was standing
in a field I used to recognize,
wondering when the smoke cleared
and when I stopped noticing.

[Verse]

We built this thing on borrowed time
crystal walls and tangled vines
every argument a stone's throw
from the truth we tried to hide

[Bridge]

And I know, I know, I know
we were never bulletproof
just two people playing fortress
on a crumbling roof

[Hook]

Glass houses don't forgive
the things we threw to feel alive

There should be different words for it —
the leaving that happens at airports,
the leaving that happens in kitchens
mid-sentence, mid-coffee, mid-life.

The leaving where someone walks out.
The leaving where someone stays
but stops arriving.

The quiet kind.
The kind that doesn't slam doors
but opens windows
so the cold comes in slowly
and you can't tell
if you're freezing
or if this is just what empty feels like.

[Verse]

Used to think that love was patient
now I think it's just a habit
reaching for your side of the bed
like my hands forgot you left it

[Pre-Chorus]

Trying to unlearn you
but you're coded in my bones

[Chorus]

I've been rewired, rewired
every nerve still calls your name
I've been rewired, rewired
and I'll never feel the same

At twenty, grief was loud.
I wore it like a wound I needed people to see.
At forty-five, it sits differently —
quiet in the chest, patient,
like a stone that's learned the shape of water.

I no longer grieve what I lost.
I grieve what I didn't know I had
until the moment it became past tense.

[Verse 1]

I've been taking backroads
through every city that knew your name
like the detour makes it easier
like distance is the same as change

[Chorus]

I'm taking the long way home
through everything I should have said
every turn just leads me back
to the versions of us I can't forget

Nobody tells you
you're allowed to stop explaining yourself.

That somewhere past forty
you get to choose which rooms you walk into
and which ones you stop apologizing for leaving.

That the version of you
other people are still waiting on
is one you outgrew quietly
and on purpose.