[Intro]
(Whisper) Oh my god — no.
[Verse 1]
June sweat on the boardwalk, ticket stub in my pocket,
A Polaroid of us, edges curling like a secret.
You said June would be ours — rooftop songs and late trains,
Now there's a story on your feed with someone else's name.
Salt on my skin from a night we never finished,
Sticky lemonade, two straws and promises diminished.
I still know the cadence of your laugh at midnight,
But tonight the lights are strangers and I'm learning how to hide.
[Pre-Chorus A]
Oh my god, not this—my hands shake on the glass,
My thumb hovers over play, but I'm watching time pass.
A slow inhale, the sea is loud and distant,
The world keeps spinning like a camera's lens—persistent.
[Chorus]
I can't watch you love somebody new this summer,
With the boardwalk lights spelling out a history I keep.
I can't stand that Polaroid—two bodies in a blur,
That old song on the radio won't let me sleep.
I won't be the audience to your leaving, not this summer,
Don't hand me the film while the credits fade to her.
[Verse 2]
Remember the bus stop where we kissed in the rain?
Now late-night stories show you smiling, champagne stains.
You wore my thrifted jacket the last September we had,
She wears the same blue dress where our photographs went bad.
There was a voicemail saved — your voice like a lighthouse,
I press and don't listen, let it sit out on my nightstand.
The shoreline knows the map of every argument and goodbye,
The pier remembers footprints that we taught to lie.
[Pre-Chorus B]
Oh my god, no—this is hollow, this is sudden,
A rising chord, then silence—my breath runs thin, unbuttoned.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the calling,
Feel the heat of July, the way old feelings keep stalling.
[Chorus]
I can't watch you love somebody new this summer,
With the boardwalk lights spelling out a history I keep.
I can't stand that Polaroid—two bodies in a blur,
That old song on the radio won't let me sleep.
I won't be the audience to your leaving, not this summer,
Don't hand me the film while the credits fade to her.
[Bridge]
I fold the Polaroid into paper boats, edges soft as lullabies,
I'll toss them in the harbor and let tide write better lines.
No dramatic walk, no storm-slammed door, just quiet unspooling,
I learn to speak in smaller truths, the tiny brave kind of choosing.
Late bus lights reflect like sequins on an old postcard,
I press my palms to the window and count the stars apart.
[Breakdown]
Oh my god — no. (But not forever.)
Oh my god — no. (I teach my hands to let go.)
[Final Chorus]
I won't watch you love somebody new this summer,
I will unlearn the soundtrack that used to call your name.
That Polaroid will float away with the tide and the thunder,
And I'll keep the salt on my skin, but not the sting of blame.
This summer won't be the one where you become my shadow,
I'll close the blinds, turn down the song, and find my own tomorrow.
[Outro]
(Soft) Oh my god — no. But I can breathe.
Under this incandescent sky, I learn
