4:12 in the morning
Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead
My uniform still smells like grease and coffee
And I'm waiting for your bus again

You looked exhausted
The kind of tired sleep can't fix
Snow falling softly against the windshield
While neither of us said much

After the shift
Everything feels more honest somehow
No pretending
No energy left for hiding things

The restaurant sign flickered behind us
Yellow and red against the snow
Somebody inside was stacking chairs
Getting ready to close

You leaned your head against the window
And asked if I was still writing songs
I said only in my head these days
You smiled like that answer hurt you

Nobody writes songs about this part
The tired version of love
The bus rides
The cold hands
The silence after midnight

But this was us
And somehow I think that mattered