No call tonight
Still plays the eighty-dollar guitar he bought at nineteen and refuses better ones
the numbers
- bpm
- 99
- key
- G major
- energy
- 0.68
- dance
- 0.93
- valence
- 0.54
- vocal at
- 4.3s
- length
- 4:39
- language
- En
lyrics
Your denim jacket hangs on my chair At the South Congress taqueria bar I left two texts in the cold blue air At one-twelve, under a paper cup scar Your road atlas folded by the sink Your thumbprint still on my truck key ring I stood by the window, tried not to think About a phone that wouldn't sing I heard the dryer knock in the hall A train rolled past on the southbound line I watched that red light crawl and fall Then I knew your silence was a sign No call tonight No call tonight No call tonight No call tonight I let the screen go black I found your receipt in my coat Cold queso, two beers, and a lime Your side of the booth still held your note "Back Sunday" wrote in a tilted line By midnight, the ice had melted flat My keys sat dead by the coffee can I kept hearing your laugh in the hallway mat But the door stayed shut, as if it planned I heard the dryer knock in the hall A train rolled past on the southbound line I watched that red light crawl and fall Then I knew your silence was a sign No call tonight No call tonight No call tonight No call tonight I let the screen go black At first light, I drove past your exit sign Past the pawn shop, past the bakery door No new words came, no line to find Just your name on my dash, then nothing more No call tonight No call tonight No call tonight No call tonight I let the screen go black