00:00/00:00
外链地址
https://www.eemp3.com/audiofile/d9dcdc6fc571f48fb7091763c0b90f6b.mp3
点击复制
When Our Old Song Comes On - BeeWaee
Drop the needle.
Count me in.
One, two, three, four.
Low guitar from the cafe speaker,
first two bars and seasons shift.
Rain on glass redraws a street,
memories move in quiet drift.
Your laugh appears in the reflection,
half a frame then fades to clear.
I reach to hold a vanishing moment,
but you're not here.
Steam lifts like an unsent letter,
rising from my paper cup.
Every chorus we rehearsed,
climbs the stairs and won't give up.
When our old song comes on,
you're not here, you're not here.
I hum the hook and fold to silence,
let the empty chair answer me.
When our old song comes on,
time turns loud then disappears.
I mouth the lines we used to whisper,
you're not here.
Taxi radio at the red light,
same old melody pulls through.
Streetlamps stack like worn-out records,
side A love, side B blue.
Ticket stubs inside my wallet,
June in salt and summer air.
I try to play the rest in order,
but you're not there.
The needle finds a tired center,
round and round the acre turns.
Even clumsy hearts learn timing,
every spin still burns.
When our old song comes on,
you're not here, you're not here.
I trace the groove across the silence,
let the soft crackle cover me.
When our old song comes on,
I keep time with what I fear.
All the space between two verses,
you're not here.
Turn the record, breathe again.
Same soft key, a softer pen.
Corner store with dusty jackets,
faded sleeves behind the glass.
Our title peaks from second row,
saving me a second pass.
I almost buy the same old pressing,
tell the clerk it sounds like home.
But homes can feel like small museums,
when you walk alone.
I swear I've learned to stop at endings,
leave the past on overplates.
Still the downbeat pulls me backward,
some debts are softly paid.
When our old song comes on,
you're not here, you're not here.
I keep the harmony beneath it,
hold the note you used to be.
When our old song comes on,
I turn low so none can hear.
All the lines we underlined,
you're not here.
Jukebox hum in a diner window,
chrome and cherry neon bloom.
Our number blinking faint and brave,
like a nightlight in a room.
I feed a coin, the motor whirring,
click and settle, spindle starts.
Even ghosts can order coffee,
paying nickels, tipping hearts.
Sugar packets, folded corners,
maps of places never seen.
Every bridge we skip forever,
hides between the verse and theme.
When our old song comes on,
you're not here, you're not here.
I sing your part under my breathing,
hold the space you used to clear.
When our old song comes on,
I forgive the passing year.
Let the scratches thread like starlight,
stitching tears.
If I rewind the second verse,
could we survive the higher key?
If I sang softer on the bridge,
would you still lean into me?
If I could trade the final chord,
for one more measure in your ear,
I'd spend the chorus buying time,
to keep you near.
Cyb after quiet trains,
run out groove, the longest wait.
Lift the arm too late, too late.
Back home, the hallways velvet twilight,
coats like shadows on a rail.
In the kitchen, ticking clockwork,
sews its minutes seam by seam.
On the table, your old headphones,
one cup chipped, the other clean.
I wear the left, leave you the right,
share a silence in between.
Window fog with fingertip letters,
play me where the daylight ends.
Some songs outgrow happy endings,
some songs learn to make amends.
When our old song comes on,
you're not here, you're not here.
But every chord forgives a little,
every symbol clears the air.
When our old song comes on,
I let go and keep you near.
Not in rooms we used to live in,
but in here.
Let the downbeat carry you.
When our old song comes on,
you're not here, yet I remain.
I let the melody be kind,
fold today and close the pain.
When our old song comes on,
I don't fight the falling tears.
I sing your part, low and steady,
till it clears.
The record clicks into the runout,
little pops like softest rain.
I raise the arm and shut the cover,
leave the echo left.