Silver Suture

[Verse 1]
The sugar spoon from the Lafayette Coney
Gets a weekly polish, Tuesday at three.
Her napkin hisses on the dulling plate,
Like she's debriding a wound that just won't seal straight.
Her coffee's gone cold, a dark, bitter pool,
And she's using that diner metal like a surgical tool.

[Chorus]
It's a sterile field, a slow hypnosis,
Just polishing silver for a better prognosis.
Trying to suture a ghost with a single thread,
Repeating the words that were never said.

[Verse 2]
She holds it up to the weak afternoon sun,
Checks the reflection for a war she's already won.
Then she mumbles a line, just under her breath,
"It was a clean extraction. A beautiful death."
It's a strange kind of pressure, a delicate art,
Giving physical therapy to a phantom heart.

[Chorus]
It's a sterile field, a slow hypnosis,
Just polishing silver for a better prognosis.
Trying to suture a ghost with a single thread,
Repeating the words that were never said.

[Bridge]
Some scar tissue never really learns how to fade,
Just gets tougher with every clean incision that's made.

[Outro]
A better prognosis...
Yeah, a better prognosis.