Fence Line Ivy

[Verse 1]
The pixel-burn from your story lights my thumb up again,
that August you moved out, you left your bike in the rain.
It’s still chained to the porch, rust eating the chrome,
like some kind of trophy for staying at home.
I see your new garden, a clean row of pots,
so different from the weeds in Ababa’s empty lots.

[Chorus]
Our roots are still tangled under the fence line, ivy,
but your flowers are blooming on somebody else’s side, why me?
Just a ghost in the feed, a name I don't speak,
an invasive species, week after week.

[Verse 2]
Remember the heat on the asphalt, the tar sticky and sweet?
“We’re weeds,” you said, laughing, kicking dirt with your feet.
“We’ll grow through the concrete, we don’t need no sun.”
Your new pictures have so much sun, Kae, for everyone.
Now I sit in the kitchen, just me and the hum,
of the fridge where the pictures of us have come undone.

[Bridge]
(Beat switches: slow trip-hop groove becomes an urgent, D’Angelo-style funk jam)
So I rewind the tape, try to find the decay,
was there a single afternoon we let the soil wash away?
Or did you just prune me back, a calculated design?
Your branch needed more light, so you couldn't have mine?

[Outro]
Just fence line ivy...
The green turning gray.