⟪ WHAT THE MOON GOT RIGHT ⟫

[Pre-Chorus] I know the night was warm and dry, no snow had touched the bridge that June. But facts grow soft against the sky when left too long beneath the moon.

[Chorus] The moon gets every detail wrong— the rain, the year, the coat you wore. It turns that summer cold and long and brings the river to my door.
But every time the rockets rise and turn the blackened water white, you set one small star drifting by— the only thing the moon got right.

[Verse 2] I stood downstream beside the rail, too young to name the kind of night. Your lantern came, a paper sail, its ribs still holding borrowed light.
I caught it where the current slowed, the flame bent low, then thinned to red. Warm wax streaked gold across the fold; by dawn, the wick lay cold and dead.

[Pre-Chorus 2] The years took down the market sign. The bridge was moved, the railing gone. But once a month the water finds that paper heartbeat drifting on.

[Bridge] Let summer freeze beneath its glow. Let rain climb backward through the night. The water took what faces show; the cloth kept something of the light.

[Final Chorus] The moon gets every detail wrong— the rain, the year, the coat you wore. It turns that summer cold and long and brings the river to my door.
And when the final rockets fade, the river keeps a smaller light. You send one small star on its way— the only thing the moon got right.

[Outro] By morning, roofs returned to gray. The river carried night away. Years later, amber stains the seam— a little sun no rain could clean.

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[Verse 1] The river wore the firelight red, the fruit-stall canvas caught the flare. A thousand sparks broke overhead, and every face was lifted there. You slipped away beside the reeds, cold water climbing through your sleeve. You freed one lantern from the weeds and set it breathing on the stream. [Pre-Chorus] I know the night was warm and dry, no snow had touched the bridge that June. But facts grow soft against the sky when left too long beneath the moon. [Chorus] The moon gets every detail wrong— the rain, the year, the coat you wore. It turns that summer cold and long and brings the river to my door. But every time the rockets rise and turn the blackened water white, you set one small star drifting by— the only thing the moon got right. [Verse 2] I stood downstream beside the rail, too young to name the kind of night. Your lantern came, a paper sail, its ribs still holding borrowed light. I caught it where the current slowed, the flame bent low, then thinned to red. Warm wax streaked gold across the fold; by dawn, the wick lay cold and dead. [Pre-Chorus 2] The years took down the market sign. The bridge was moved, the railing gone. But once a month the water finds that paper heartbeat drifting on. [Chorus] The moon gets every detail wrong— the rain, the year, the coat you wore. It turns that summer cold and long and brings the river to my door. But every time the rockets rise and turn the blackened water white, you set one small star drifting by— the only thing the moon got right. [Bridge] Let summer freeze beneath its glow. Let rain climb backward through the night. The water took what faces show; the cloth kept something of the light. [Final Chorus] The moon gets every detail wrong— the rain, the year, the coat you wore. It turns that summer cold and long and brings the river to my door. And when the final rockets fade, the river keeps a smaller light. You send one small star on its way— the only thing the moon got right. [Outro] By morning, roofs returned to gray. The river carried night away. Years later, amber stains the seam— a little sun no rain could clean.

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