Seventh & Maple 1 by Arnaud

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Seventh & Maple 1 by Arnaud - Indie Folk music cover art

Seventh & Maple 1

Arnaud

Indie Folk

0:002:58
Lyrics
Description
f#m on seventh and maple where the streetlight leans,
e the grocer's bell rings like a timeworn machine,
a you folded our route on a paper plane —
f#m a coffee-ringed polaroid, your name again.
e asphalt smelled of cedar and rain,
a night hummed low like the last car's chain.
e we tucked small truths in the glovebox drawer,
f#m quiet confessions, the things we swore,
e a single breath before the long goodbye,
a fingers mapped the map of how we tried.
c#m memory rolls like river glass, sharp and slow,
b it keeps the shape of where our footsteps go,
e in the backseat, the radio crooned our song —
c#m the porch light's still humming when the nights are long.
f#m your jacket smelled of cedar and old ink,
e a subway token and an unread link,
a we learned small bargains — laughter, and the cost,
f#m a thrifted sweater with a patch at the elbow lost.
e that bakery on third with the seeded rolls,
a you saved a corner of the map beneath your soles.
e we threaded words through the teeth of pause,
f#m folded edges of the reasons and the cause,
e a slow inhale before the doors would swing,
a holding on to what the quiet used to bring.
c#m memory keeps the echoes of our laugh, near and far,
b flashes of the mirror in the café window's star,
e winter coats and the way you traced my name —
c#m the polaroid with a coffee ring and a frame.
f#m i tried to fold the map the same way twice,
e found holes where we had tried to splice,
a the lyric snapped — a truth in minor key:
f#m that holding on became the thing that wouldn't let you be.
e so i untied a knot with slow hands and kinder plans,
a let morning re-map the lines across my hands.
c#m memory keeps the taste of lemon on your tongue,
b a porch swing quiet where our younger song was sung,
e we keep small relics like a moth keeps light —
c#m the map we folded in your coat, still folded tight tonight.
f#m seventh and maple warms in the slow gold dawn,
e a street of absent footsteps, but i walk on,
a i hum the two-note rise you carved in my chest —
f#m a simple motif, a pulse, a place to rest.
e the paper map slips into a pocket worn thin,
a and somewhere in the pause, we learn to begin.
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