Radio Dust

The dial spins in empty spaces,

the transmitter glows a bitter red.

Dust settles on forgotten faces,

and words we never should have said.

(Is anyone left there?)

(Only the cold air.)

There are ashes on the receiver,

and every voice sounds like mine.

Through the static and the winter,

something forgotten stays alive.

Burned photographs in steel drawers,

winter freezing up the window frame.

Across these quiet empty floors,

the frequencies all sound the same.

(Names beneath the static...) (A memory automatic...)

There are ashes on the receiver,

and every voice sounds like mine.

Through the static and the winter,

something forgotten stays alive.

We broadcast into the dead of night,

(underneath the wire)

no one watches the signal light.

(burning like a fire)

There are ashes on the receiver,

and every voice sounds like mine.

Through the static and the winter,

something forgotten stays alive.

(Stays alive...) (Just static...)