Synaptic Cleft

[Verse 1]
You hear the hiss of the slush on Niagara Street drain,
then the deadbolt clicks, a single metallic grain.
The radiator breathes a low, diastolic steam,
and you hang your coat, interrupting a dream.
The whole world shrinks to the hum of the kitchen light,
the space between her fork and the edge of the night.

[Chorus]
And this is the synaptic cleft, the static in your head,
the million miles of silence on a single, unmade bed.
This is the beautiful ending, the quietest defeat,
written in the condensation on a window to the street.

[Verse 2]
She traces the watermark on the old oak board,
a map of every spill, a forgotten, final word.
It’s ten seventeen and the city is holding its breath.
You almost ask the question that tastes like a little death.
She says, “The Lake’s freezing different this year, you see?”
And you know she’s talking about you, and you know she’s talking about me.

[Bridge]
The impulse dies in the cartilage of your jaw,
a signal lost to some unwritten, ancient law.
The truth is a fever, just under the skin.

[Outro]
This is the synaptic cleft.
Where the new world can’t begin.