Coaster Calligraphy

[Verse 1]
Nine-fifteen on a Tuesday, the Sazerac highball sweats on the pine,
she traces the condensation, checking on the time.
Her iPhone twelve screen's a pale blue confession in the dim,
a digital vigil for a silhouette that ain't walking in.
She came in with the rain, smell of ozone on her coat,
left a perfect lip print, a silent, crimson note.
Each tick of the clock is a brick in the wall he's building now,
she's staring at the door, but she don't see me, anyhow.

[Verse 2]
The ice has gone to water, the rye is warm and flat,
she mouths the words "he's running late" and leaves it just at that.
The umami of her hope is simmering down to bitter ash,
I'm polishing a glass and I watch the moment pass.
I'm eighty-sixing orders, I'm deep inside the weeds,
but still I see the garden of her unattended needs.
She twists the paper napkin 'til the fibers start to fray,
another empty promise that just circles down the drain.

[Hook]
That's coaster calligraphy, a eulogy in water-ring,
the gospel of the ghosted for the choir that'll never sing.
Yeah, coaster calligraphy, a story left behind in damp,
a prayer beneath the flicker of a lonely bar-top lamp.

[Hook]
That's coaster calligraphy, a eulogy in water-ring,
the gospel of the ghosted for the choir that'll never sing.
Yeah, coaster calligraphy, a story left behind in damp,
a prayer beneath the flicker of a lonely bar-top lamp.

[Outro]
She slides a twenty on the wood, a ghost of the vermouth left,
then out into the humidity, a victim of the theft.