November Eighth Concrete

[Verse 1]
The guard in the tower hums Bach at four a.m.
His cigarette smoke tastes like rain on cold tin.
He traces the searchlight's path on the glass,
This tectonic quiet wasn't built to last.

[Pre-Chorus]
A boy with a tennis ball makes a little bet,
"Tomorrow," he whispers, "I'll get it over yet."

[Chorus]
They don't know the fault line is humming my name.
A tectonic whisper, a different kind of game.

[Verse 2]
A girl draws a heart in the dust on my western face,
Leaves a smear of her lipstick, a temporary trace.
She looks through the wire at a window across the street,
A stranger's whole life measured in forty-seven feet.

[Pre-Chorus]
A boy with a tennis ball makes a little bet,
"Tomorrow," he whispers, "I'll get it over yet."

[Chorus]
They don't know the fault line is humming my name.
A tectonic whisper, a different kind of game.

[Bridge]
All this pressure in the sediment,
A history I was never meant to hold.
All the weight of what they haven't said.

[Outro]
The dust hasn't settled.
Not yet.