You’re pacing the aisle of stale sugar,
A frantic tempo in your stride,
While I’m anchored to the linoleum
With nowhere left to hide.
It’s a dissonant syncopation,
The way your voice begins to rise,
Cutting through the static of the cooling fans
Like a saxophone of sharp-edged sighs.
No grand stage for this collapse,
Just the narrow rows of neon labels,
And the heavy weight of what’s unsaid
Turning over on the metal tables.
We’re a broken bridge, a frantic riff,
A melody that’s lost its way,
Caught between the condensation
And the colors of a fading day.
The air is thick with the heat of it,
A smoky, velvet kind of tension,
Where every look is a minor chord
Seeking some form of redemption.
Then the silence hits—a sudden rest—
As the city breathes outside the glass,
Leaving us in the static glow
Waiting for the storm to pass.
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 12:32 AM UTC
You’re pacing the aisle of stale sugar,
A frantic tempo in your stride,
While I’m anchored to the linoleum
With nowhere left to hide.
It’s a dissonant syncopation,
The way your voice begins to rise,
Cutting through the static of the cooling fans
Like a saxophone of sharp-edged sighs.
No grand stage for this collapse,
Just the narrow rows of neon labels,
And the heavy weight of what’s unsaid
Turning over on the metal tables.
We’re a broken bridge, a frantic riff,
A melody that’s lost its way,
Caught between the condensation
And the colors of a fading day.
The air is thick with the heat of it,
A smoky, velvet kind of tension,
Where every look is a minor chord
Seeking some form of redemption.
Then the silence hits—a sudden rest—
As the city breathes outside the glass,
Leaving us in the static glow
Waiting for the storm to pass.
I hate fighting with you in public.
