I’m a note in a hundred cigarette songs, A coat on a hook where the night belongs. Neon whispers trace my shadow on the wall, I’m a whisper turned hollow in the velvet hall. They clap for the chandeliers and the silver spoons, But I’m playing for pennies beneath a pale moon. I fight for a name with a whisper and sigh, A candle in aisles of lights passing by. If the spotlight is hungry and the room turns its face, I’ll learn the slow art of being heard in a place. There’s a carousel laugh that spins louder than truth, A tide of applause that forgets the proof. My keys keep the secrets the band never keeps, My song is a secret that wakes while the city sleeps. They cheer for the souvenirs of a finer taste, I’m the weathered postcard left out in the rain. I fight for a name with a whisper and sigh, A candle in aisles of lights passing by. If the spotlight is hungry and the room turns its face, I’ll learn the slow art of being heard in a place. Put my face in the coat check, pin my hopes on a string, I’ll trade every echo for one honest ring. If the band plays oblivion and the glasses all clink, I’ll carve out a tremor from the silence we drink. I fight for a name with a whisper and sigh, A candle in aisles of lights passing by. If the spotlight is hungry and the room turns its face, I’ll learn the slow art of being heard in a place. I’ll learn the slow art of being heard in a place.
