[Intro — rain loop, bass only, 8 bars] (spoken, half-whispered) Platform six. Eight-forty. Same tile. Same place. Same nothing. [Verse 1 — rap, drums enter bar 3] Platform six, eight-forty, every working day, I stand on the same cracked tile like it holds me in place. You come up the east stairs, coffee in your right hand, and I clock it every time like I got some kind of plan. I don't. That's the thing. I ain't got a word, got a whole speech in my chest that has never been heard. Two months of this. Sixty mornings, give or take. Sixty times I said "today", and sixty times I break. You caught me looking once. I looked down at the track. You caught me twice — and that time you smiled back. And I carried that smile eleven hours straight, and stood on that tile again at eight-forty-eight. [Hook 1 — sung, melodic, half-time drums] Every morning, same light, you're there and I'm quiet. Twenty feet of nothing and I never cross it. Platform six, eight-forty, you smile and I fold. I keep coming back, I keep coming back. [Verse 2 — rap, tighter, drums thinner] Guy at the kiosk knows. He don't ask no more, just slides me the black coffee, nods at the door. Says "she's early today." Says "go on, then." And I say yeah, yeah... and I don't, again. 'Cause here's what I built in my head, and it's dumb — a smile is a country where I don't hold a visa. You smile at the tiles. At the ads. At the rain. That it ain't about me and it never was, plain. So I keep it at twenty feet. Safe distance. Clean. Close enough to see you, too far to mean anything at all. Two months. Same tile, same time. And the whole thing's mine and none of it's mine. [Hook 2 — sung, fuller, backing vocals] Every morning, same light, you're there and I'm quiet. Twenty feet of nothing and I never cross it. Platform six, eight-forty, you smile and I fold. Twenty feet. Twenty feet. Twenty feet. [Verse 3 — rap, beat drops to bass and rain only] Then it broke. Not me — the sky. Half past eight, came down sideways, everybody running late. You stood there soaked with your hands on your head, and I had an umbrella and I didn't think, I just — crossed it. Twenty feet. Took about four steps. Four. Two months of building what I crossed in four steps. Held it over you, said a stupid little phrase, don't even know what, but you took it anyway. You took the stupid thing and you laughed, out loud, and the whole platform went somewhere else, somehow. Said there's a place on the corner, train's gone anyway. And we sat down at nine and we didn't leave till they — [one bar — rain only] — till they put the chairs up. [one bar] Four hours. [one bar] Four hours and one umbrella. [Final Hook — full band, maximum energy] Every morning, same light, you're there and I'm quiet — not anymore, not anymore. Twenty feet of nothing and I finally crossed it. Platform six, eight-forty, you smiled and I went. And I'm never going back. I'm never going back. [Outro — spoken, dry, rain fading out] Platform six. Eight-forty. Same tile. She stands on it with me now. [rain. fade.]
0/500