Verse 1 Somewhere between gates and gut-checks, I split— likely Dallas, so flat-white-lit. Headphones full of “Rabbit in Your Headlights,” hands to my face like I’m bracing for brake lights. Chair-wrecked, red-eyed, slow-aging shame, smelling like runway fuel and blame. Texting them half-truths, half-alive, Shadow the soundtrack inside my mind. Pre-Chorus Four minis in by noon o’clock, pulse clicks like a metronome in shock announcement voice inside my head: Passenger, please step back from the ledge. Chorus (Hook) Do not let this failure fly— my breath says fire, my eyes say why; but I keep taxiing the line, I’m not done, I’m not defined. I'm done tripping down the aisle, I freeze, and just take some fewer miles; even those Mondays, even those Mondays— I move, I mend, in crooked ways. Verse 2 Vodka-vodka warning-label lungs, sniffle-sob rhythm, tongue gone numb. Client city doesn’t matter by then— all airports rhyme when you’re paper-thin. I forgot my age like a misplaced gate, kept tasting regret after boarding late. Hallway haloed me in stark neon, and I saw the thing I leaned upon. Pre-Chorus [1/2 time] Boarding slip bent in the cabin air, ground crew waving cones with care; inside voice clears its throat again: You can turn around, you can repair. Chorus (Hook) Do not let this failure fly— my breath says fire, my eyes say why; but I keep taxiing the line, I’m not done, I’m not defined. Headlights find me in the aisle, I freeze, and just take some fewer miles; even those Mondays, even those Mondays— I move, I mend, in crooked ways. Bridge I’m a gate change, last-call, carry-on heart, a soft “I’m sorry” learning to start. If the intercom mercy says “delay,” I’ll use the time to find my way. Final Chorus (Hook) Fine, I’ll let this guy fly— her breath says fire, her eyes say why; still she keep taxiing the line, one breath closer to aligned. White lights find me—don’t look away; I live, I learn, I pay, I stay. Even those Mondays, even those Mondays— I move, I mend, in crooked ways.
