© Copyright 2026 - Peter PHIR! Midnight on Eighth Street, rain fogging up the glass I trace the water droplets as the yellow taxis pass You're pulling at a paper sleeve, it's twelve minutes to one We both pretend there's something left that hasn't been undone The steam rises slow from your cinnamon oat latte You say you might move west before the coming of May And all the unspoken promises are floating in the steam Caught between the city lights and a lingering dream You didn't say stay, and I didn't say don't go Just the sound of midnight rain washing down Soho Yeah, we swore it with our eyes across a tiny wooden ring Saying everything by saying not a single thing Your damp wool coat is hanging on the back of my chair There's a drop of neon magenta sitting in your dark hair I leave a crumpled napkin with a doodle of a key You tap your thumb three times, a silent code to me We're experts at the quiet, we're masters of the draft Building shelters out of words we never had to craft And all the unspoken promises are floating in the steam Caught between the city lights and a lingering dream You didn't say stay, and I didn't say don't go Just the sound of midnight rain washing down Soho Yeah, we swore it with our eyes across a tiny wooden ring Saying everything by saying not a single thing And maybe in Seattle you'll remember this café When the sky turns slate and the rain comes down the same way Or maybe I'll buy a ticket, show up at your front door With a cold paper cup and a heart that wants more Because silence isn't safety, it's just a place to hide And every word we swallowed is screaming loud inside! And all the unspoken promises are floating in the steam Caught between the city lights and a lingering dream You didn't say stay, and I didn't say don't go Just the sound of midnight rain washing down Soho Yeah, we swore it with our eyes across a tiny wooden ring Saying everything by saying not a single thing The barista stacks the chairs, the neon turns off blue Just the damp street reflection of me and you No promises made, no promises broken Just rain on Eighth Street, and the words left unspoken. © Copyright 2026 - Peter PHIR!
