Lyrics

There’s a note on the counter
I folded but never sent—
just your name,
written softer each time,
like I was trying
not to break the page.

The coffee’s cold.
The silence stirs
the curtain by your chair.
And I pretend I don’t remember
how your voice
once filled the air
without having to try.

And I’m halfway home—
but the lights don’t reach this far.
There’s a path I keep retracing
just to find out who we are.
The night bends quiet
where your shadow used to stay—
I’m learning slow:
some distances
don’t fade.

My sweater’s still on the back of the chair—
the one you always stole when it got cold.
It smells like you,
and the October wind,
and something I still can’t hold.

I keep hearing you in open windows
and apologies I never made.
I wrote a different song once—
but it wouldn’t hold its shape.
So now I only play the chords
that let me ache.

I’m halfway home—
but it doesn’t feel the same.
The porch light’s on,
but it doesn’t call my name.
I’ve tried to go,
I’ve tried to stay—
I’m learning now
how to live
the in-between days.

They said time was a healer—
but it’s more like dust:
it settles on what’s gone
but never touches
what still hurts.

I walk past old trees
where we carved our names—
the bark has healed,
but I still read them
in the dark.

I’m halfway home—
and maybe that’s enough.
The fire went out
but I still feel the warmth.
There’s a truth that bends
when I try to explain—
but I’m learning still:
some love
remains.

Like the hum
of your name
when I speak it
to no one—
I’m halfway home
and still
on my way.