[Verse 1] The frame has leaned there since the year we moved back in. I square it every Sunday. By Tuesday, it leans again. The nail sits deep. The plaster’s sound. The wire is taut and true. Still one edge lifts into the light, the other slips from view. One corner catches morning. One settles into blue. I used to call that damage. Now I watch what light can do. [Pre-Chorus] I used to reach on instinct. I used to make it right. Now I leave my coffee cooling and watch one corner catch the light. [Chorus] Crooked on purpose— leave it that way. The nail keeps holding. The frame has its say. Not falling. Not broken. Not begging to fit. Crooked on purpose— don’t straighten it. Crooked on purpose. So am I. [Verse 2] My mother held it straight for thirty years with two fingers and a prayer. I thought she loved the picture. Now I think she loved the care. The photograph has faded where the afternoon got in: one summer, curtains closed, her thumb beneath my chin. A chair beside the window never shifted from its place. Whenever glass went crooked, she straightened every face. [Pre-Chorus 2] I used to reach and fix it before the tilt could stay. Now my hand stops halfway up and slowly falls away. [Chorus] Crooked on purpose— leave it that way. The nail keeps holding. The frame has its say. Not falling. Not broken. Not begging to fit. Crooked on purpose— don’t straighten it. Crooked on purpose. So am I. [Bridge] A bus went past. The window shook. The frame slipped half an inch. My hand rose toward the upper edge before I noticed it. The glass caught my reflection, cut thin by window rain. The house gave one low settling groan. My hand went down again. [Final Chorus] Crooked on purpose— leave it that way. The nail keeps holding. The frame has its say. Not falling. Not broken. Not begging to fit. Crooked on purpose— don’t straighten it. Crooked on purpose. One corner catches light. Crooked on purpose. So am I. [Outro] The frame hangs crooked. The wall wears the mark. Morning finds one corner. The other keeps the dark. A little farther left than it leaned last year, holding the summer we left hanging here.
