Porcelain Grip

[Verse 1]
The fork scrapes the plate at the Victory Drive Waffle House.
Three AM Tuesday, yellow light on his mouth.
He's tracing the cracks in the faded Formica,
Two strangers sharing a ghost in a vinyl booth corner.

[Chorus]
And that's the long fade, the slow-motion bend,
A joint that won't hold at the bitter end.
A porcelain grip on a memory's handle,
Too tight to let go, too slick to dismantle.

[Verse 2]
Remember the splinter you pulled from his palm last July?
Down by the rail yards, under that chemical sky.
He bled on your shirt, you just laughed it away,
Two halves of one shadow at the closing of the day.

[Bridge]
He clears his throat, whispers, "You still got that scar?"
And for a second, the distance don't seem so far.
Then he looks at his hands, says, "Man, forget I asked."
Just two ghosts in a photograph, fading too fast.

[Outro]
The fork scrapes the plate at the Victory Drive Waffle House.
A sound like a door swinging shut on its own house.