Glass Petals

The hallway creaks, the clock is slow,
I wait for a sound I used to know.
Your coat still hangs against the wall,
sometimes I swear I hear you call.

Glass petals fall, I try to hold,
they slip like fire, they cut like cold.
In every shadow, in every breath,
glass petals sing what’s left.

Glass petals scatter across the floor,
I pick them up, but there are more.
They cut my hands, they never fade,
shining soft where love once stayed.

Glass petals fall, I try to hold,
they slip like fire, they cut like cold.
In every shadow, in every breath,
glass petals sing what’s left.

The window hums, the night drifts in,
I trace old shapes across my skin.
Glass petals rest inside the frame,
whispering softly, calling your name.

Glass petals fall, I try to hold,
they slip like fire, they cut like cold.
In every shadow, in every breath,
glass petals sing what’s left.

The lamp goes dim, the cord is frayed,
I hum the tune the music made.
It skips, it stutters, turns around,
like glass petals breaking without a sound.

Glass petals fall, I try to hold,
they slip like fire, they cut like cold.
In every shadow, in every breath,
glass petals sing what’s left.

I hold the box, the gears still turn,
the song forgets, but I still learn.
If time repeats, it doesn’t heal,
but glass petals tell me what was real.

Glass petals fall, I try to hold,
they slip like fire, they cut like cold.
In every shadow, in every breath,
glass petals sing what’s left.

When morning comes, I’ll close my eyes,
pretend the night was not a lie.
And if the song runs out of breath,
I’ll sing the rest under my chest.

Glass petals fall, I try to hold,
they slip like fire, they cut like cold.
In every shadow, in every breath,
glass petals sing what’s left.