Cover Me

Dark alternative hip-hop with studio-clean, intimate cinematic production; close-mic male baritone, conversational spoken-word verses with dry pauses and a warmer, melodic chorus; restrained, unhurried dusty groove that gradually builds; sparse piano, warm cello, muted bass, subtle dusty drums, faint vinyl texture, occasional clean guitar swells

You asked if you could cover my song.

I said,
“Of course.”

Very casual.

Very normal.

Very much pretending
my ego didn’t just do
a tiny fucking backflip.

There’s something strange
about somebody reading your words

and deciding,

Yeah.

I want those
in my mouth too.

That sounded flirtier
than intended.

Actually...

No it didn’t.

I wrote the thing
with my own little damage,

stitched the rhythm
through the static,

gave the chorus
something sharp enough
to leave a mark.

Then you walked in
and asked permission

like I wouldn’t hand you
every single word.

Go on.

Cover me.

Take my words,
make ’em breathe differently.

Give a human voice
to the ghosts inside of me.

Cover me.

Change the shape
of every melody.

If you love the song
enough to make it yours,

that’s one hell of a compliment
to me.

So cover me.

I’ll try not to stare.

No promises.

You said,
“Give me some time.”

Absolutely.

Take all of it.

Because I’ve heard your songs.

That’s actually
the concerning part.

You’ve got that kind of voice
that could sing
an instruction manual

and suddenly I’m emotionally invested
in page forty-three.

Assembly required.

Apparently so am I.

And now I’m sitting here
wondering what happens

when your voice
gets hold of my lyrics.

Do they behave?

Do they come home?

Do they remember
who wrote them?

Probably not.

Traitors.

Can’t blame them.

Go on.

Cover me.

Take my words,
make ’em breathe differently.

Give a human voice
to the ghosts inside of me.

Cover me.

Change the shape
of every melody.

If you love the song
enough to make it yours,

that’s one hell of a compliment
to me.

So cover me.

I’ll try not to stare.

Still no promises.

Funny thing about writing songs,

you spend hours
trying to make yourself
sound intentional.

Every syllable weighed.

Every rhyme interrogated.

Every metaphor
asked where it was
on the night in question.

Then somebody says,

“I love this.
Can I sing it?”

And suddenly
all that clever shit
gets very quiet.

Because that means
it traveled.

Left my head,
crossed whatever distance
exists between strangers,

and landed somewhere
worth keeping.

That part?

That part gets me.

More than I’ll admit

without making a joke
immediately afterward.

So...

Nice weather.

Terrible transition.

Moving on.

If you change a line,
make it yours.

If you bend a note,
bend it harder.

If you find something
inside the song
I didn’t know I put there,

keep it.

That’s the beautiful part.

I built the skeleton.

You get to give it lungs.

And that line

was definitely flirtier
than intended.

...

Still not taking it back.

Go on.

Cover me.

Take my words,
make ’em breathe differently.

Give a human voice
to the ghosts inside of me.

Cover me.

Change the shape
of every melody.

If you love the song
enough to make it yours,

that’s one hell of a compliment
to me.

So cover me.

Make me hear
what my words sound like

when they belong
to somebody real.

That’s terrifying.

That’s flattering.

That’s art,
I think.

And if your other songs
are any indication...

I already know
you’re going to make
the damn thing beautiful.

Which is rude.

I worked very hard
to make it emotionally unstable.

So take your time.

I’ll be waiting.

Very patiently.

Very respectfully.

Very normally.

...

That last one
was a lie.

3502/7500

For Tarja, who liked something I made enough to want to make it her own. I’m genuinely honored, ridiculously curious to hear what you do with it, and only pretending to be normal about the whole thing. 💜 You asked if you could cover my song. I said, “Of course.” Very casual. Very normal. Very much pretending my ego didn’t just do a tiny fucking backflip. There’s something strange about somebody reading your words and deciding, Yeah. I want those in my mouth too. That sounded flirtier than intended. Actually... No it didn’t. I wrote the thing with my own little damage, stitched the rhythm through the static, gave the chorus something sharp enough to leave a mark. Then you walked in and asked permission like I wouldn’t hand you every single word. Go on. Cover me. Take my words, make ’em breathe differently. Give a human voice to the ghosts inside of me. Cover me. Change the shape of every melody. If you love the song enough to make it yours, that’s one hell of a compliment to me. So cover me. I’ll try not to stare. No promises. You said, “Give me some time.” Absolutely. Take all of it. Because I’ve heard your songs. That’s actually the concerning part. You’ve got that kind of voice that could sing an instruction manual and suddenly I’m emotionally invested in page forty-three. Assembly required. Apparently so am I. And now I’m sitting here wondering what happens when your voice gets hold of my lyrics. Do they behave? Do they come home? Do they remember who wrote them? Probably not. Traitors. Can’t blame them. Go on. Cover me. Take my words, make ’em breathe differently. Give a human voice to the ghosts inside of me. Cover me. Change the shape of every melody. If you love the song enough to make it yours, that’s one hell of a compliment to me. So cover me. I’ll try not to stare. Still no promises. Funny thing about writing songs, you spend hours trying to make yourself sound intentional. Every syllable weighed. Every rhyme interrogated. Every metaphor asked where it was on the night in question. Then somebody says, “I love this. Can I sing it?” And suddenly all that clever shit gets very quiet. Because that means it traveled. Left my head, crossed whatever distance exists between strangers, and landed somewhere worth keeping. That part? That part gets me. More than I’ll admit without making a joke immediately afterward. So... Nice weather. Terrible transition. Moving on. If you change a line, make it yours. If you bend a note, bend it harder. If you find something inside the song I didn’t know I put there, keep it. That’s the beautiful part. I built the skeleton. You get to give it lungs. And that line was definitely flirtier than intended. ... Still not taking it back. Go on. Cover me. Take my words, make ’em breathe differently. Give a human voice to the ghosts inside of me. Cover me. Change the shape of every melody. If you love the song enough to make it yours, that’s one hell of a compliment to me. So cover me. Make me hear what my words sound like when they belong to somebody real. That’s terrifying. That’s flattering. That’s art, I think. And if your other songs are any indication... I already know you’re going to make the damn thing beautiful. Which is rude. I worked very hard to make it emotionally unstable. So take your time. I’ll be waiting. Very patiently. Very respectfully. Very normally. ... That last one was a lie.

0/500