[verse] hey there, my dear, it’s been a minute, you know, since you’ve been on my mind, then out of nowhere you pop up, like pulling an old photo from a drawer, and it makes me smile. i think back to the rainy mornings when we’d argue about absolutely nothing—who got the bigger slice of cake, who left the door open—and laugh because those tiny quarrels meant we were comfortable. now i’m sitting on a porch with a cup of coffee, talking to the birds and to your memory. i’m not pining, just owning the fact that absence sneaks up like a punchline you didn’t see coming. you always left your keys on my counter and your socks under the couch; i still find them sometimes and roll my eyes in affection. [chorus] i’m worn down from chasing, always reaching past what’s in front of me, i know it, but what am i supposed to do? just give me a little breathing room— even hearts need elbow space. i used to think wanting was a virtue, but lately it feels like a treadmill that won’t stop; it’s exhausting and, frankly, a bit ridiculous. do you ever wonder if the search for more is just a way to avoid sitting with what is? asking you for space feels like telling the tide not to come in, but i’m still doing it because sometimes you get what you ask for. [verse] hey there, my dear, your heart could be carved in stone, since i came back around, i’ve never felt quite so out on my own, still, the memory of you warms my face. i admit, your stubborn streak used to drive me up the wall; it’s one of the reasons i knew you were going to make something of yourself. what i didn’t anticipate was feeling like a guest in my own kitchen when you were across the table, eyes on a distant horizon. yet there you are in my head, laughing at a joke we told once, and it makes the present feel less cold. [verse] hey there, my dear, your heart could be carved in stone, since i came back around, i’ve never felt quite so out on my own, still, the memory of you warms my face. i’m repeating myself, like i always did when i was nervous, and i’m okay with that. sometimes repetition is comfort; it lets you sit with words until they lose their sharp edges and feel like river stones in your palm. i guess that’s how i handle the ache—by turning it over, by saying it out loud, by letting it be part of my day instead of the whole thing. [chorus] i’m worn down from chasing, always reaching past what’s in front of me, i know you’ll leave someday, but could you stick around ‘til monday? just the thought of it softens the day. i’ve read enough self-help books to know clinging doesn’t help, yet here i am asking. maybe it’s because the weekend always felt like ours, like we had carved out a little island in the sea of responsibilities. i’d rather be honest about missing that than pretend i’m above it. i’ll be here, tidying up the living room of my mind, ready to laugh when something reminds me of you, ready to let the sadness visit but not move in.
