Static In The Evening by Lori Yamamoto

The leaves outside my window don’t whisper anymore, Just static in the evening, a hum behind the door.  I used to hear them singing when the world felt too wide,  Now it’s just the radiator keeping time inside.   Funny how the silence grows teeth when you’re alone, Gnawing on the edges of the love you used to own Every face a rerun, every touch a trace— When did all the colors start to fade to gray and grace? Shadows used to dance here, long-limbed and slow, Now they just lie tangled where the light won’t go.  Promises? Oh, they’re brittle—sugar-spun and slight,  Dissolving like the daylight stealing into night. I keep turning pages, but the plot won’t twist,  Just the same old questions in a different cursive script.   "When does the weight grow lighter?" (The answer’s always vague—) Maybe when I stop expecting life to bend or break [Bridge] But sometimes—just sometimes—the static clears, And for half a heartbeat, the path appears: No grand revelation, no cosmic "click,"  Just your hand in the darkness, steady and quick.  [Outro] So let the old ghosts linger, let the echoes spin,  They’re just background music now, barely sinking in. And if the leaves stay silent, well, that’s alright— I’m learning how to listen to the quiet in the light.