You speak in gentle chaos,
I answer with my silence.
We built a home of quiet storms,
and called it love, in defiance.
But every word we try to mend
just breaks in softer ways again.
Maybe I was wrong to think
love could fix the noise inside.
You’re not the villain, I’m not the saint
we’re just echoes out of time.
Maybe all the light we chased
was fading from the start.
And maybe I was wrong to call it love
when it was only art.
I watched the warmth inside your eyes
turn into distant weather.
We kept pretending we were fine,
but fell apart together.
The more we tried to hold it close,
the more it slipped beneath our bones.
Maybe I was wrong to think
love could fix the noise inside.
You’re not the villain, I’m not the saint
we’re just echoes out of time.
Maybe all the light we chased
was fading from the start.
And maybe I was wrong to call it love
when it was only art.
If I see you in another life,
maybe we’ll be more than almost right.
But for now, I’ll learn to breathe alone
in the silence we both call home.
You’re still a song I hum at night,
but not the one I’ll sing for life.
