KING TIDE IN THE KITCHEN

[Verse 1]
The MARTA bus sighs on the corner of Glenwood at 2AM.
Rain on the asphalt, petrichor and diesel blend.
There's a square of yellow light, fourth floor, third from the end,
and a silhouette I map a future onto, just pretend.
He's got a ferry schedule taped up to the kitchen wall,
counting down the hours till a tide that doesn't call.
Got the hum of bad wiring, the ghost of a dropped call,
I'm watching my own ghost prepare himself to take the fall.

[Chorus]
King tide in his kitchen sink.
Saltwater rising, he don't even blink.
Just another Tuesday, on the brink.
Thank God I'm still out here where I can think.

[Verse 2]
I bet his pipes are corroded like a skiff left on the sand,
the remote control is worn down to the shape of his hand.
He's got the low-res memory of a place he understands,
playing back on static-channel-three across the land.
'It gets easier,' my uncle said, 'the ocean just gets smaller in your head,'
a lie you tell yourself inside a city-grid instead.
He's probably got the same damn crack above his bed,
I see the signal failing, every single word unsaid.

[Bridge]
That window is a screen that's buffering a life I dread.
He's the version of me moored here after all the currents fled.

[Outro]
The light goes out. My own feet walking are the only sound.
Another block, another drowned.