歌詞

A silver needle leans

Behind the greenhouse glass

I count the quiet air

And what it holds back

The leaves curl at the edge

The soil stays dark below

Somewhere between too much

And never letting go

I thought care was a steady hand

I thought warmth would make me bloom

But even tender things can bend

Inside a careful room

Tell me when the air is wrong

Tell me when the roots need space

I have been learning how to live

By watching small leaves change

Not every wilted part is gone

Not every softness stays

I am only trying to read

What the room will not say

The window keeps its mist

Like breath it cannot lose

A vine climbs toward the light

Then turns back confused

I touch the rim of clay

And feel the circle there

A shape I grew into

Before I knew to care

I thought love was keeping close

I thought shade could still be kind

But some things need another room

To leave their old shape behind

Tell me when the air is wrong

Tell me when the roots need space

I have been learning how to live

By watching small leaves change

Not every wilted part is gone

Not every softness stays

I am only trying to read

What the room will not say

If I am dry, do not drown me

If I am weak, do not hold me tight

Open the pane just slightly

Let a different weather inside

Tell me when the air is wrong

Tell me when the roots need space

I have been learning how to live

Without forcing anything to change

Not every quiet part is dead

Not every closed door stays

I am only trying to read

What the room will not say

A little breath against the glass

A little green beneath the clay

I do not have to bloom tonight

I only have to stay