Summer roads, one earphone, the evening turning blue. A voice beside me, laughing somewhere, then fading with the view. When? I don’t remember. But I remember the feeling. When. Who. How. And who sang it? I barely remember. A voice. A smile. Lips moving somewhere in the light. No name. No face. Just an echo I can’t quite place. Rain on glass, the last train, neon running through the night. An old CD, a borrowed car, city lights passing by. Who? I don’t remember. But somehow, I still hear it. When. Who. How. And who sang it? A voice in the dark. A melody I almost know. No name. No face. Just something I can’t let go. Maybe the years took the picture away. Maybe the sound was all that stayed. A voice. A breath. Lips moving for a moment in time. And somehow, somewhere, it’s still mine. When. Who. How. Maybe that’s the song. Not the words. Not the name. Just the feeling that remains. A voice fading into the blue— still somewhere, still ringing through. This song. Maybe that’s the song.
