Silver Ridge

[Verse 1]
I'm the silver ridge of skin just south of Mac's left wrist,
born of oven rack and bourbon glaze, a panicked little twist.
From a Saturday in August when the ticket printer screamed,
he was reaching for the flatbreads, living someone else's dream.
Now I'm just a pale reminder, a cartographic line,
I watch him pour the Sazeracs and polish up the pine.
I feel the heat lamp's fake-ass sun, the chill of shaking ice,
just a permanent receipt here for a momentary price.

[Chorus]
And I know he's gonna miss this when the tour bus starts to roll,
this sticky floor and last call prayer that's branding on his soul.
Yeah, I know he's gonna miss this, the smell of bleach and lime,
this little piece of borrowed hell on someone else's dime.

[Verse 2]
Last week at the Rouse's, some kid in a Saints cap
said "Yo, you Mac Hollow?" gave his shoulder a quick tap.
Mac just nodded, pushed his cart, I felt the muscle tense,
the first crack in the firmament, it didn't make no sense.
'Cause I remember ramen nights and overdraft alerts,
the secondhand Wurlitzer, the holes in all his shirts.
Now the blog post gets a thousand shares, the feature is a lock,
I'm just a faded battle scar from punching in a clock.

[Chorus]
And I know he's gonna miss this when the stage lights burn so bright,
this shotgun house humidity on a Tuesday summer night.
Yeah, I know he's gonna miss this, this sweet and bitter ache,
every single beautiful and dumb-ass past mistake.

[Bridge]
He traces my shape on the condensation of a glass.
A ghost of heat from a kitchen fire he knows will never pass.
A memory in tissue now, a story he can't sell,
a little map of heaven born inside a little hell.

[Chorus]
And I know he's gonna miss this when the call time is at dawn,
this city's weary heartbeat when the tourist crowds are gone.
Yeah, I know we're gonna miss this, this pressure, and this grace,
the price you pay for finding your reflection in a place.

[Outro]
Just a map of where you're from.
Yeah. A map of where you're from.