Doorframe Gospel

[Verse 1]
The streetlight on Elmwood still bleeds through the blinds,
a stain on the wall where we measured our spines.
The third November since you moved east,
you call and your voice is a familiar beast.

[Pre-Chorus]
You say, “Everything’s smaller than I remember.”
I say the freight train still cries through December.
You ask if I still have that Polaroid from the quarry,
I ask if you still feel that phantom limb of the story.

[Chorus]
Isn't it strange, the anatomy of a ghost?
How it holds the shape of the thing you miss most.

[Verse 2]
Your new apartment's a slow-healing fracture,
a clean white cast where the memories can't capture
the smell of the malting barley on the breeze,
or the particular quiet of the leafless trees.

[Pre-Chorus]
You whisper, “I’m scared I’ve forgotten the feeling.”
The crack in my kitchen paint is finally peeling.
You say you see grain elevators in your sleep,
I say that's a promise the marrow can keep.

[Chorus]
Isn't it strange, the anatomy of a ghost?
How it holds the shape of the thing you miss most.

[Bridge]
That pencil-mark scar on the doorframe is vespers,
a single synapse that fires and whispers
you were here, you were real, you were breathing this air.

[Outro]
Just the dust in the light.
Translucent, and bright.