STATIC LOAD

[Verse 1]
You trace the crack in the glass on the iPhone 8, it’s 4:17, August again.
The weight of a thumbprint that hesitates, hovering over the ghost of your kin.
The whole room is cantilevered on this one decision, a structural flaw in the frame.
You scroll past his picture, a hazy vision of him on the porch off Moreland, yelling your name.
The static hum from the fridge is a baseline for mourning, a low-frequency drone.
Every pixel a brick in this digital fortress you can't leave alone.
The foundation is shot and the drywall is breathing, the paint starts to peel from the stress.
You draft a new text to a number not receiving, and hit send to the silent address.

[Chorus]
Static load on the screen bright.
Last name, first name, in the blue light.
"Delete Contact?" The words are a fault line.
Yeah, you leave it for one more night.

[Verse 2]
Remember the blueprint he drew on a napkin? A treehouse with rebar and stilts.
That permanent grin, the "what's happenin'," the way that he’d stand with a hand on his hip.
Now the silence in here is a load-bearing column that holds up the roof on the past.
You built this whole life as a quiet asylum of moments you knew couldn't last.
His MPC’s covered in dust on the dresser, a grid full of pads he won’t touch.
You measure the grief by the ambient pressure, it's never too much, 'til it's much.
That number’s an anchor, a dead-end connection, a dial tone cutting to black.
You archive the ache in a brand new collection of texts you can’t ever take back.

[Spoken Word Interlude]
(A lo-fi, distorted voicemail recording. A woman's voice, warm but tired.)
"Kilo? It's mom. Just… just checking in. The garden’s looking good. Your father says the bonsais miss you. Call me when you get this. Okay? Bye."

[Chorus]
Static load on the screen bright.
Last name, first name, in the blue light.
"Delete Contact?" The words are a fault line.
Yeah, you leave it for one more night.

[Outro]
The screen goes to sleep.
The load is still yours to keep.