On The Low...

I N T R O: This isn’t confusion. It’s consent with the lights off. A choice that keeps choosing me back. V E R S E 1: We don’t collide—we converge, Like two closed roads remembering the same destination. I tell myself I’m anchored now, domesticated by daylight, Still feel your pull rearrange my tides at night. You live in the margins of my discipline, A footnote I keep rereading. I practice restraint like a religion, But my faith bends when you say nothing. I lie beside a promise that loves me clean, Yet crave the stain only you leave— That familiar bruise on my composure, Proof I was touched by something true. P R E C H O R U S : This isn’t fate— It’s precision. Every step measured. Every risk intentional. C H O R U S : On the low, we make a covenant with the dark, No permission, just a mutual spark. If it’s forbidden, let it burn slow— We tend the flame where it shouldn’t grow. On the low, I cross my own lines, With steady hands and a sober mind. Call it wrong if you need a name— I call it knowing the fire and choosing the flame. V E R S E 2: You don’t ask me for tomorrows, That’s how you get me to stay. No futures to fracture, no vows to betray— Just gravity dressed as restraint. We speak in glances that bruise the air, In pauses heavy with what we don’t say. Language would make us accountable; Silence lets us remain exquisite. I don’t call it betrayal— I call it unfinished architecture. A door I closed ceremonially, Left the hinges intact for you. P R E C H O R U S 2: No innocence to plead, No confusion to claim— I enter this knowingly, Call my conscience by name. C H O R U S : On the low, we make a covenant with the dark, No permission, just a mutual spark. If it’s forbidden, let it burn slow— We tend the flame where it shouldn’t grow. On the low, I cross my own lines, With steady hands and a sober mind. Call it wrong if you need a name— I call it knowing the fire and choosing the flame. B R I D G E: I hate how calm the damage is— No sirens, no collapse. Just a woman fluent in consequence Stepping back into a familiar gap. This isn’t lust— It’s recognition wearing restraint. It’s knowing exactly where to stand So the lightning strikes without rain. C H O R U S : On the low, no alibis, Eyes open, pulse baptized. If we fall, we fall advised— Two truths touching in disguise. On the low, I don’t ask release, I make room for the part of me That knows the cost, knows the sin, And chooses the tension again. O U T R O: Some fires don’t need permission. They need proximity. On the low.