Bone Lacquer

[Verse 1]
I am the white line on the clavicle's slow curve,
Where the bone learned a new language from a Dauphine Street curb.
I feel the room's heat through your skin, a low delta damp,
The mosquito-net shadow from a Noguchi lamp.
It's three twenty-two on a Tuesday in June.

[Chorus]
I'm the map of a moment, a pale geography,
Holding fast to the frame that holds all your worry.
A closed seam of memory, a permanent mark,
Listening to your pulse race alone in the dark.

[Verse 2]
The linen sheet's grain presses into my raised edge,
As you cantilever your weight to the window's cold ledge.
“Just a stumble,” you said then, your breath tasting of lime,
A hairline excuse to reset the passage of time.
You still trace my length when you think I can't feel.

[Chorus]
I'm the map of a moment, a pale geography,
Holding fast to the frame that holds all your worry.
A closed seam of memory, a permanent mark,
Listening to your pulse race alone in the dark.

[Bridge]
But the architect’s body refuses to rest,
Puts my own structural integrity to the test.
This foundation is sound, this joinery is true.
This mend is much stronger than what broke in two.

[Chorus]
I'm the map of a moment, a pale geography,
Holding fast to the frame that holds all your worry.
A closed seam of memory, a permanent mark,
Listening to your pulse race alone in the dark.