Hold me for six seconds,
don’t let the night decide.
If you’re already leaving,
leave me on your warm side.
You didn’t start a fight—you just went quiet,
packed with your eyes open, calling it mercy.
Suitcase in the hall like a question I won’t ask,
I watch your hands fold distance into corners.
Out by the rail, the skyline keeps its promise,
a thin red line where everything turns “after.”
I say, “I can’t,” like it’s a clean confession,
you stay close, like “still” is something I can offer.
Hold me for six seconds,
don’t let the night decide.
If you’re already leaving,
leave me on your warm side.
You send a voice note—barely any air in it,
six seconds shaking, “Please… not tonight.”
I play it back twice, ’cause once feels cruel,
then set my phone down, face-up, too bright.
You don’t ask forever, you don’t even say “stay,”
you just sound scared of how clean I can leave.
I could type something warm and still mean “goodbye,”
so I let the silence say what I decided.
Hold me for six seconds,
don’t let the night decide.
If you’re already leaving,
leave me on the soft side.
I’m not here to punish you, I’m here to cut it clean,
’cause one more minute and I’ll fake what you still mean.
You say “just six” like seconds stitch what we lost—
but I’ve been paying interest, paying the cost.
Don’t read my quiet as a game, it’s me keeping it kind,
I won’t turn you into a villain just to ease my mind.
If I cross back now, we repeat the same ending—
so I hold the line, even if I’m not there.
Hold me for six seconds,
don’t let the night decide.
If you’re already leaving,
leave me on your warm side.
Hold me for six seconds,
say my name one last time.
If I’m just a memory,
make it gentle in your mind.
At the unsent horizon,
I’m still reaching in the dark.
If you can’t stay beside me,
let the unsent line be where we leave it.
