[Intro] I saw the pattern in the crack of the glass. I heard my name and dropped it twice. The speaker hissed before the chorus, then left the room inside my chest. [Verse 1] Your jacket on the chair, lint caught at the hem, my coffee cooling where you said forget. Every morning I recite three lines, and every night they lose their meaning. I map out how to fix this frame, call it repair, then call it shame. But the waveform bends and clips away before the chorus finds its shape. [Pre-Chorus] The screen blurs at the lower corner. My fingers know the wrong key. I ask for what I already said, then swallow half before you hear me. [Chorus] Shatter Pattern, not a crash, shedding pieces in the hall. Shatter Pattern, not a flame, flicker out and leave the wall. I tried to make it fit my hand, now glass is grain and air has teeth. Some breaks are quiet after dark; some parts just choose to cease. [Verse 2] Your cracked phone screen, taped at two. blue light staining the hallway floor. I wrote your number in my palm, then washed it with a warmer water. The grocery list stayed on the counter, even after you went out. Now I fold it up and hold it flat because paper knows to bend without doubt. [Pre-Chorus] Your name keeps clipping at the end. The speaker coughs once more. I let the silence fill the gap and stop pretending there is less before. [Bridge] If I tried to glue it back today, the seams would show in blue. the pieces wouldn't find their place, they only shifted shape with you. So I sit until the room goes thin, shear metal, static in my teeth, and let the shattered pattern stay to prove what went and left its seam. [Chorus] Shatter Pattern, not a crash, flicker out into the hall. Shatter Pattern, I can see the pieces that don't fit at all. I stop trying to mend the crack; now glass is grain and air has teeth. Some breaks are quiet after dark; some parts just choose to leave. [Outro] One piece stays in the doorway frame. Two more scatter by my shoe. The room goes still. The pattern quits. I learn to hear it too.
