(Intro — tape crackle, kettle sighs)
grey Plymouth hums like an old fridge,
Nadine sits with the window on repeat.
porcelain moon, cigarette freckles,
she folds the afternoon into a paper boat.
(Verse 1 — murmured, small)
there’s a map of her face in the steam,
a little compass pointing to nowhere.
she calls herself “plain” like it’s a polite thing,
a ribbon tied to the back of a coat.
Hector walks like the clinic’s echo,
white coat wings with a stethoscope knot.
he smells like rubbing alcohol and blunt truths,
and his words, like spoons, are too loud in her chest.
(Pre-Chorus — soft, clipped)
“you look tired,” he says, like a diagnosis.
“you need something,” he offers, like a bandage.
his fingertips keep time on the café table,
drumming the edges of the thing she is trying not to be.
(Chorus — fragile, looping)
oh Hector, don’t you know the rain here tastes like tin?
oh Hector, don’t be clever with my skin.
and when you lean in with your blunt little plan,
I am a paper heart, I am a small blunt man —
no. (no.)
not a kiss, not now, not here.
(Verse 2 — whimsical fret)
Nadine remembers the sea as gray wallpaper,
children’s laughter stuck behind glass.
she bought boots in optimism and they leaked anyway,
she counted the footprints and knitted them into sweaters.
Hector speaks in medical charts and misplaced bravery,
he mistakes her silence for an invitation.
“just one kiss,” he commands like a clinical test,
as if passion can be scheduled between appointments.
(Bridge — jittery, half-whisper)
in the cupboard of her throat there’s a coin,
it glints with all the words she never spent.
she flips it; it lands on maybe,
then the wind changes and she folds it flat again.
she is not a hero, she is not unmade,
she is a hallway with all the lights off,
and something soft is watching from the corner.
(Break — high-pitched hum, childlike cadence)
Hector’s hands are polite wrecks,
Nadine’s breath is a scratched record.
she imagines a boy on the pier with a radio,
the song stuck between two notes — forever.
(Chorus — layered, quiet scream)
oh Hector, don’t you know the rain here tastes like tin?
oh Hector, don’t be clever with my skin.
and when you lean in with your blunt little plan,
I am a paper heart, I am a small blunt man —
no. (no.)
not a kiss, not now, not here.
(Verse 3 — brittle)
he looks surprised like someone who forgot his own name,
as if the world owes him a chorus.
Hector’s eyebrows are folded maps of apology,
but his mouth is an impatient drawer.
she says “no” like a window shutting,
clean, polite, with a click.
he walks away with the clack of a hinged regret,
a small man leaving a smaller sound.
(Outro — weary, repeating)
Hector leaves with his pockets full of weather,
Nadine watches the door like it’s an old movie.
she buys a drink — a pale thing, trembling glass —
and it tastes like every other small relief.
but the drink does nothing for the tremor in her hands,
it does not smooth the crease between her ribs.
not even a drin
