We never spoke in simple lines,

Our truths were tuned, our hearts in rhyme.

You’d drop a verse, I’d hum reply,

Two melodies beneath one sky.

In every chord, a clue was cast,

In every key, a glance that passed

We borrowed words from vinyl ghosts,

And said the things we feared the most.

We were speaking in songs, not saying a thing,

Letting Lennon and Cohen confess what we mean.

Every chorus concealed what our courage postponed,

We were lovers who whispered through microphones.

You’d cue the crackle, soft and sly,

A sigh disguised in “I’ll Be Fine.”

I’d send a tune at 2 A.M.,

A trembling truth in requiem.

And in those tracks, our souls entwined,

Between the bass and borrowed lines

Our love was played, not plainly told,

A secret spun in stereo gold.

We were speaking in songs, not saying a thing,

Letting Billie and Bowie translate our feelings.

Every bridge that we crossed was a record we’d known,

We were ghosts in a groove, decoding our tones.

Some nights I still scroll through the sound,

Your voice’s echo wrapped in vinyl round.

A needle finds what lips once meant,

Our silences still instrument.

We were speaking in songs, not saying a thing,

Letting lyrics and longing entwine in between.

Now the station is static, but the feeling’s not gone

We still speak in songs…

when the silence comes on.