Palpatory Static

[Verse 1]
The Cornerhouse vinyl on Tuesday is peeling a pale meringue,
He traces the salt shaker's sweat ring, a game without a name.
Her gaze is fixed past the gantry cranes, out on the gunmetal sound,
Where the fog makes a slow, clean incision and never comes unwound.

[Chorus]
It's the palpatory static, the pressure inside the glass,
A symptom you can't diagnose, a fever that's built to last.

[Verse 2]
Her coffee's a cold black contusion, a film on the ceramic lip,
The silence between them ossifies, a fracture in the hip.
"You should probably eat that," she says to the hardening fries,
A final, clinical kindness beneath the fluorescent lights.

[Chorus]
It's the palpatory static, the pressure inside the glass,
A symptom you can't diagnose, a fever that's built to last.

[Bridge]
His blood pressure spikes with the mill whistle's 4 o'clock drone,
A deep-sea compression for anguish he'll only feel alone.
This is the final suture line, pulled invisibly tight.

[Chorus]
It's the palpatory static, the pressure inside the glass,
A symptom you can't diagnose, a fever that's built to last.

[Outro]
A symptom you can't diagnose...