There’s a sadness clinging to the corners of her mouth.
She’s starting to look older, but aren’t we all.
I can see that something’s happened since last week.
Maybe a lover left, maybe a debt arrived,
maybe it was just a sleepless night,
but she won’t say, she just orders the same as last Friday.
Things get quiet around the tables,
like everyone’s just exhaled at the same time.
Her shoulders shudder, lungs linger.
Breath caught as his spectre looms to haunt her.
She wears the tell-tale left hand tan,
a reminder, branded on her skin, of when she loved him.
Maybe she heard he’s already replaced her.
Maybe she heard he’s already erased her.
Maybe she heard that they have a house now,
where they can lie together,
where they can watch the weather take over the sea,
while she drifts out as a memory,
sitting in some cafe with me
and the inadequate empathy of “Thank God it’s Friday”
She blinks and with a noncommittal smile starts fussing with her purse,
proving again that small talk always makes things worse.
Still I wish I could tell her,
even though I don’t know her
and I’m just a familiar stranger,
I would listen, if she needed.
I would notice if she faded away.
Raincoats and red scarves and features bracing for the cold
and with a glance at me, turns to leave.
Four indie-pop reflections on growth and loss from the Australian singer-songwriter, sustained by robust pianos and fervent vocals. Bandcamp New & Notable Feb 29, 2024
More folk-inflected confessionals on love, loss, and anxiety — plus a Kacey Musgraves cameo —from the Nashville indie pop auteur. Bandcamp New & Notable Feb 11, 2024