Phantom Grip

[Verse 1]
You've got the Strathmore paper, the 2B graphite stick,
But you still can't get the knuckle on her index right, it makes you sick.
The paper's cold beneath your palm, a sterile kind of white,
A failed systole on the page, a line that doesn't bite.

[Pre-Chorus]
You trace the air above the page, a cartographer of loss,
Where the muscle memory starts to atrophy and cross.

[Chorus]
It's just a phantom grip, a ghost inside your glove,
A sympathetic nervous twitch you once called love.

[Verse 2]
The kitchen table's covered now in carbon-smudged mistakes.
It's been October for a year now, for goodness sakes.
A nurse at Tacoma General said, "It helps to have a craft."
You didn't have the heart to tell her that you laughed.

[Pre-Chorus]
You trace the air above the page, a cartographer of loss,
Where the muscle memory starts to atrophy and cross.

[Chorus]
It's just a phantom grip, a ghost inside your glove,
A sympathetic nervous twitch you once called love.

[Bridge]
Her wedding ring was always loose, it slid around the bone.
You'd spin it back into its place, talking to her alone.

[Outro]
You pick the pencil up again, your knuckles showing white,
And you almost draw her letting go...