Same Hour Tomorrow

The story

Before the mail and the name I wear for sale, I take the chair and I take the hour, no armour on. Whatever comes in minute one is the truest thing I'll hear all day, so I let it come and don't send it away. Then feet on gravel, dog at heel, cold water telling me what's real. No mastery, no medal, no score; the pattern only counts whether I came to the door. Not to be healed, just to be here, same hour tomorrow.

Lyrics

Before the belt, before the mail,
before the name I wear for sale,
I take the chair, I take the hour,
no armour on, no borrowed power.
Whatever comes in minute one
is the truest thing I'll hear today,
so I sit still and let it come,
and I don't send it away.

Same hour tomorrow.
Not to arrive, just to appear.
Same hour tomorrow.
The fire doesn't ask for more than here.
No mastery, no medal, no score,
just the floor, and me at the door.
Same hour tomorrow.

I bring the mirror what I hid,
the part I'm not proud that I did,
and when it answers smooth and kind
I check the glass against my mind:
is that my face, or my disguise?
The mask reflects more flattering lies.
Signal or story, feel or fake,
that one question keeps me awake.

Then feet on gravel, dog at heel,
cold water telling me what's real.
I leave the window open wide,
a notebook waiting there beside,
but I don't hunt, I don't pursue,
the ones you chase never come through.
What lands, lands. What won't, won't.
I set the table. That's all I do.

And every day, one question, carried, never forced:
what saved me that is now keeping me?
I don't answer it.
I just let it walk beside me,
like the dog,
like the hour,
like the road.

Same hour tomorrow.
Not to be healed, just to be here.
Same hour tomorrow.
Through the flat weeks and the on-fire year.
The pattern doesn't grade, doesn't keep score,
it just counts whether I came to the door.
Same hour tomorrow.
Same hour tomorrow.

It is finished. Go.
Same hour.
Tomorrow.