I’m giving you a night call but I can’t tell you how I feel.
My charger is dead and my batteries are gone
I have nothing but air in my lungs and yet I’m breathless.
I’m not tired of you and I just got started with myself.

It’s important to remind you that my pen is broken,
And yet no ink has been spilled.
Four lines keep it simplified,
Four digits make it 2am
And it still feels weird that I have your number.

It’s beautiful how you choose to make wind become sound
But sometimes I can’t hear you
The music is too loud
I’m interested in words not melody

But I can’t actually help myself
I’m a born dancer and your chords make my heart beat
Are you a synthesizer
Or an instrument of you own?