Lyric

Rain on the windowsill

Two cups, half-finished

A coat hangs by the door

Still carrying last winter

The room keeps a low hum

Like a house holding breath

A name sits in the air

And never says itself

At the edge of evening

The small ache starts to glow

A match in a deep pocket

A spark that will not show

Salt on plum skin

Soft hurt, sweet stain

Some moments stay

After the light has changed

Salt on plum skin

The mouth learns slow

What was held too tight

Begins to go

Sunday market, empty stalls

Orange peels on the ground

A dress on a chair

Turns the whole room around

The radio misses a note

Then finds the old refrain

A laugh crosses the hallway

And leaves a warm rain

At the edge of morning

The small ache starts to glow

A match in a deep pocket

A spark that will not show

Salt on plum skin

The ache wears gold

Even the quiet

Has a story to hold

Salt on plum skin

Slow burn, soft blow

What was held too tight

Begins to go

A cracked teacup shines

When the window turns bright

What breaks in a season

Can still catch light

Not a clean ending

Not a cruel one

Just a taste on the tongue

When the day is done

Salt on plum skin

No clean divide

Sweetness and sorrow

Walking side by side

Salt on plum skin

Fade, then bloom

Something tender stays

In the wake of the room