Halfway Home

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.