Archival Pressure

[Verse 1]
The blue light off the Samsung screen on the Formica counter, seven years I tried to count up
the reasons why, the season died, this invasive weed I gotta pull from the ground up.
The contact list a knotted root, a garden I ain't tended to,
the bitter fruit, the empty room, the draft I swore I'd never send to you.
That Moog hums low, a funeral dirge for digits in a long row,
thumb hovers on a ghost I know, the only father I've been wronged for.
And in the glow, a choice you made, the tuition debt that never got paid,
a tap away from turning spade on this fallow ground that we both made.

[Chorus]
Archival pressure on the glass, a little pixelated trash can
It doesn't ask, the moment passed, the last lock turning in my hand.
Archival pressure on the name, a final pruning of the family tree,
a quiet screen, it feels insane, this little death sets me free.

[Verse 2]
The passcode is a skeleton key to open up the old hurt,
see your face there under the name, a faded JPEG on a cold shirt.
"A man's handshake is his bond," is what you told me, voice was so sure,
while my sister's future sat in your account, a cancelled check, a closed door.
And I inherited the hands that fix the synth, your damned sense of timing,
the bitter irony of finding pieces of you in my own rhyming.
A parasitic vine I gotta sever 'fore the whole house falls,
just a number now, disconnected, I'm ignoring all the ghost calls.

[Chorus]
Archival pressure on the glass, a little pixelated trash can
It doesn't ask, the moment passed, the last lock turning in my hand.
Archival pressure on the name, a final pruning of the family tree,
a quiet screen, it feels insane, this little death sets me free.

[Bridge]
(Drums and vocal only)
Thumbprint.
Glass-cold.
Seven-year hold.
Story told.

[Outro]
Nine-thirty on a Tuesday.
Then the screen was just a name I used to say.