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