Yeah, I’m right here where the skyline fractures,
neon leaks on my sleeves—every color a chapter.
Logic in the backbeat, conscience on the hi-hat,
counting 1-800 miracles till the night collapses.
Alessia whispers through the static, “you’re enough,”
so I stitch the quiet to my pulse when the world gets rough.
We ghosts in the headphones, but we loud in the lungs,
breathing hope in 4/4, till tomorrow never comes.