The Low Tide

[Verse 1]
The MPC pads are gray from the dust of my own skin.
Kitchen table at 1 AM, wondering where to begin.
I loop the stand-up bass lick your Blue Note record wore thin,
and it throws me back to August on Lake St. Clair again.
Sixteen feet of fiberglass, the hull smacked the surface hard.
You never said a word, just stared at the Ambassador Bridge's iron arms.
Your hands were rough as barnacles, a lifetime of disregard
for anything but the engine's hum, the pull, the final yard.

[Chorus]
Never told you then, but that water felt like home.
And the current from that day is still pullin' through my bones.
It wasn't what you said, it was the pressure in the zone.
The low tide of your silence left a treasure I could own.

[Verse 2]
You pointed at the wake, said, "See? It always disappears."
A lesson in the undertow I've held onto for years.
The surface tension breaks, but the depth is what endures.
Your quiet was a harbor from the buzzing of my fears.
I study grief like it's a blueprint for a busted factory line,
every stress point cataloged, every fracture in the design.
But joy's a different current, it's harder to define.
Like the sun off the river that day, how it made the water shine.

[Bridge]
I see you in the static when the sample starts to drift.
A tributary thought, a momentary gift.
I wish I could've told you how your silence made me shift,
how the weight of it was ballast, not a thing I had to lift.

[Outro]
Never told you then, but that water felt like home.
The low tide of your silence left a treasure...