Subterranean Static

[Verse 1]
The water in the glass on my nightstand is shaking.
It's 2 AM on a Tuesday, and your tectonic plates are quaking.
I turn the TV off, press my ear against the floorboards.
Another aftershock from apartment twenty-four.

[Chorus]
And I'm mapping the fault lines in your tone,
a cartographer of arguments, sleeping alone.
I know one day this pressure has to crack,
and I'll miss the sound of you coming back.

[Verse 2]
"You never listen," is the first thing I can make out.
A scrape of a chair, the drywall doubt.
Sounds just like the quiet in my father's house after the slam.
I guess you can't outrun the kind of rock I am.

[Bridge]
The 3 AM freight train rattles the window pane,
a shared, percussive rhythm in the Philly rain.
For thirty seconds, we are all just shaking in our beds.
Silence rushing back to fill our heads.

[Chorus]
And I'm mapping the fault lines in your tone,
a cartographer of arguments, sleeping alone.
I know one day this pressure has to crack,
and I'll miss the sound of you coming back.
(Countermelody: I don't know how to live in the quiet.)

[Outro]
The shaking's stopped.
It's over, I guess.