Songs we have written
for other people.

The streetlight flickered on Linden Ave — you wore worn-out sneakers, gave me all you had. Ball bouncing echoes through the summer dark, you made a kingdom out of empty parks. Marcus, you were strong before you knew, holding all the pieces we were falling through. You gave your light away so naturally — now I hope someday you see what I see.

Frost sitting low on the wooden dock — you'd hand me coffee while the world still slept. Old tackle box and a fading cap, sunrise burning gold across the lake. Thomas, now I finally understand — love ain't always loud, sometimes it's calloused hands. It's waking up before the sun can rise, carrying the weight without asking why.

Purple neon shining on your leather jacket sleeve, arcade machines glowing while you danced in front of me. Coins rattling in your pocket like a soundtrack to the night — you laughed and pulled me closer underneath fluorescent lights. Clara, you lit up my life like neon skies, like midnight colors burning through tired eyes. Before you, everything felt black-and-white and still — now every heartbeat races like headlights on the hill.

Sunday records spinning low beside the stove, Billie Holiday humming soft and slow. Cinnamon and apples filled the room while snowflakes gathered silver by the window. Rose, you made kindness look easy somehow — like love could live in ordinary hours. In teacups, quiet talks, and midnight songs, in making broken people feel they still belonged.