I Heard You Reading Me

© 2026 FOOTLOSE — Rights reserved. Concept, lyrics, artistic direction, prompting and final editing: Footlose. AI assistance: Mistral & ChatGPT. Music, sound design and vocals generated with Suno AI. Contains AI-generated elements. Commercial use subject to applicable Suno Pro terms. ---- I knew you found the whisper by your bed, I left it there because I could not speak instead. A paper moth, a folded little sign, Too scared to touch your hands, but still alive. You thought my silence meant I had withdrawn, But I was awake before the dawn. I watched your shadow cross the wooden floor, And wrote your name where I could write no more. Every page I left was not goodbye, It was a flare I buried in the sky. Every line you kept beneath your skin Was my way of asking to be let back in. I heard you reading what I could not say, Turning my absence into prayer and ache. I was not cold, I was afraid to stay, With every sentence pulling me your way. You said I hummed like fever in your head, But I was burning in the words unsaid. You read me slow, you let me in, I felt your hands beneath my skin. You called me the story you could not bend, The slow infection you learned to tend. But I was the wound behind the page, And you were the cure I feared to name. I saw the streetlamps write me in the rain, But every letter carried back your name. You folded nights we never dared to have, I kept their corners like a photograph. The grammar of my absence was not pride, It was a language hiding deep inside. I placed my commas where your breathing stayed, Then ran before the sentence could be made. You thought I left you with an open door, But I was shaking on the other shore. Calling softly through the ink and dust, Too full of longing, too short on trust. You said I hummed like fever in your head, But I was burning in the words unsaid. You read me slow, you let me in, I felt your hands beneath my skin. You called me the story you could not bend, The slow infection you learned to tend. But I was the wound behind the page, And you were the cure I feared to name. Pages flutter when the heart won’t stay, When everything true is trained to fly away. I heard them moving in your quiet room, Small white wings against the gloom. You counted margins, I counted doors, You counted echoes, I counted yours. If love is literature, then I confess: I was the chapter that feared the rest. I was not gone, I was half-erased, A voice too afraid to take its place. I wore my absence like a borrowed coat, With all your letters caught inside my throat. You said I hummed like fever in your head, But I was burning in the words unsaid. You read me slow, you let me in, I felt your hands beneath my skin. You called me the story you could not bend, The slow infection you learned to tend. But I was the wound behind the page, And you were the cure I feared to name. So open the cover, not to go back, But to find the pulse beneath the crack. No more ghosts between the lines, No more clocks rewriting time. And if I lived inside your head, You lived in every line I bled. You called me virus, soft and slow, But you were the fever I could not show. I was the virus... In your quiet head... But you were the fever... I carried instead…