47 Seconds

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47 Seconds lyrics

Artist-supplied lyric sheet, matched by title. The sheet may differ from this released performance. Production notes and alternate promotional cuts are omitted.

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Intro

Six fourteen AM. 813 area code. You been gone nine years.

Verse 1

Sat there two hours 'fore I touched it, staring at the dresser Notification pulsing like a heartbeat under pressure You left something on my phone and I don't know what to call it Not a message, not a memory, just forty-seven seconds lodged in my jaw like a swallowed wallet I ain't listened yet, I'm building up the nerve in small installments Coffee going cold on the windowsill next to my insurance card and a rent receipt for March

Pre-chorus

Forty-seven seconds Forty-seven seconds of you Forty-seven seconds And I don't know what to do

Chorus

You left something on my phone I ain't playing it out loud Hands on the edge of the bed, I'ma listen on my own The archive folder getting crowded You left something on my phone Forty-seven seconds long Too short to be a letter, too long to be a wrong

Verse 2

Played it once. Hands shook. Sat on the edge of the mattress Didn't hear your voice, heard the weight of what you wasn't Played it twice. My chest did that thing it does at funerals Third time through I'm listening for the word I never got, wasn't nothing in the grooves but static and a cough Fourth time, I'm pretending I'm looking for evidence Fifth time, I'm pretending I ain't pretending

Pre-chorus

Forty-seven seconds Forty-seven seconds of you Forty-seven seconds And I still don't know what to do

Chorus

Verse 3

Last I saw you, Chevron on US-1, October 2017 You asked me for three hundred dollars, I gave you a hundred and twenty The pump was on seven, the attendant was watching, the argument was about money the way hurricanes are about wind I mean it wasn't about the bill, we both knew that You said "alright, man." I said "yeah." The receipt printed loud That parking lot is the reason this voicemail weighs a hundred and eighty pounds

Bridge

Typed a paragraph. Deleted it. Typed "ok." Deleted it. Typed "who is this?" Like I didn't know. Deleted it. The cursor blinked. I watched it. I watched it like it owed me an answer too.

Verse 4

Draft one said everything. Draft two said nothing. Draft three said "I'm good" Draft four was just a period and I almost hit send, but I couldn't Punish and reconnect, they pulling me in opposite directions Same muscle trying to hug and throw a haymaker, the tendon snapped in the intersection Closed the keyboard. Opened it. Closed it again The blue bubble never turned gray, the gray never turned blue Nobody got read receipts on this one, nobody getting through

Verse 5

Hit save, not delete. Slid it to the archive, labeled it "DAD 10/04" Didn't call back. Didn't not call back. Did the thing between the two Tomorrow I'll listen again. Day after that I'll listen again I'll keep the voicemail longer than I kept the anger, longer than I kept the plan The object persists. The object is the answer and the question at once You left something on my phone. I left something unsaid. The math don't balance. It don't have to.

Chorus

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Inside the recording

96 sampled loudness windows · 306 seconds. The white line follows the player; this is a local recording matched by title and duration, not a verified YouTube audio fingerprint.

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01 / The opening