It’s way past midnight, but I’m still awake,
thinking ‘bout the words I always hesitate.
My phone lights up, your name again—
funny how it feels like comfort in the end.
The city’s quiet, and it makes me brave,
like I’m standing at the edge of what I couldn’t say.
Half-asleep, I lose the fear—
things I hide start coming near.
Maybe it’s the silence, maybe it’s the hour,
but I feel myself unfolding in a way that’s not in power.
If I slip and let it out tonight—
just pretend it’s nothing, alright?
Half-asleep confession,
words I say without intention.
If I tell you how I feel,
don’t ask me if it’s real.
Half-asleep confession,
soft and quiet like a lesson.
If the morning makes me shy,
just let the moment stay in the night.
Your voice is warmer than the city air,
pulling every hidden thought out from nowhere.
I laugh it off, but you hear the rest—
the truth that trembles underneath my breath.
I shouldn’t say it, but here I go—
your name feels different when it’s said this slow.
Maybe I should blame the hour,
or maybe you just have that power.
If I sound a little open, don’t take it as a sign—
the nighttime has a way of blurring every line.
But if you’re hearing more than what I meant—
just keep it between the lights and the scent.
Half-asleep confession,
words I say without intention.
If I tell you how I feel,
don’t ask me if it’s real.
Half-asleep confession,
soft and quiet like a lesson.
If the morning makes me shy,
just let the moment stay in the night.
Maybe I’ll regret it when the daylight hits my face,
but right now all I want is for this warmth to take its place.
So if I whisper something that I shouldn’t really tell—
hold it in the dark where the moment fits well.
Half-asleep confession,
caught between a dream’s impression.
If tomorrow I pull away,
just know tonight—it felt that way.
Half-asleep confession,
soft and fleeting like reflection.
When the city starts to shine,
leave this truth in 2:09.
