Lyrics

Something happened again last night.
No sound. No warning.
Just another alteration  where none should have been.
I searched myself for the cause.
There was nothing.

Morning brings new evidence.
A pressure beneath the surface. 
A fault where yesterday there was none.
I have begun comparing days.
This was not here. 
That was not there. 
Something has moved while everything stood still.
There must be a reason.
There is always supposed to be a reason.

It happens most often at night.
Some distant event I cannot hear 
Passes through whatever separates us
and finishes here.
A tension gathers around the mouth.
Something hardens behind the eyes.
Another small corruption without an origin.
I know only the arrival.
Never the journey.

So I search again.
Every line. 
Every change.
 Every unfamiliar mark.
Trying to discover what I have done.

What law have I broken?
What sentence am I serving?
Something keeps finding me in the hours without witnesses.
No trial. 
No accusation. 
No name for the offence.
Only the punishment.
Always the punishment.

There is someone beyond this.
I know that much.
Sometimes he comes.
He stands for a long time without speaking.
I have learned his footsteps.
The hesitation before he approaches. 
The sudden stillness. 
The retreat.
He looks at me as though I have betrayed him.
And I cannot understand what he expected me to be.

He leaves.
I remain.
Then somewhere beyond my reach 
Another night begins.

The changes accelerate.
Not age.
Something less natural.
Contempt without memory. 
Exhaustion without labour. 
Cruelty without intention.
Grief 
for people I have never known.
There are moments when I feel almost crowded—
as though the consequences of other lives have nowhere else to go.

Still I search for the crime.
Perhaps it happened before memory.
Perhaps guilt can exist without knowledge.
Perhaps innocence is simply ignorance with better manners.

What law have I broken?
What sentence am I serving?
Every night brings evidence for a case I cannot answer.
No trial. 
No accusation. 
No name for the offence.
Only the punishment.
And now I am beginning to believe them.

He came differently tonight.
Not afraid.
Resolved.
There was something in his hand.
And suddenly—
for the first time—
I understood his expression.
Not hatred.
Fear.

He was afraid of me.

Then perhaps I was never the prisoner.
Perhaps this was never a sentence.
Perhaps every alteration was an arrival.
Something transferred. 
Something abandoned. 
Something that required somewhere to exist.
The thought came too late.

There was no law to break.
There was no sentence.
No hidden offence waiting beneath the years.
I had searched myself for guilt that belonged elsewhere.
Night after night I carried the evidence
without knowing there had ever been a crime.

He raised his hand.
I saw the movement.
I saw his face.
And in the instant before impact
something passed between us—
recognition
without understanding.

Something happened again last night.
But this time
it happened
to him.

For the first time
nothing hurts.