Dawn toddles along, tugging at the chains tied to your heart. Every breath is full of dishwater and unseen wings, flight another version of sinking, buoyancy all you can ask. The gray swathes and insects, the dead leaf and the dry eye day, heaven flecked with flocks and swarms every time you look. You have wandered the distance, from names to regrets, from spark to ash. You have opened your eyes despite the dreadful weight. Just because every box has a prize inside, it doesn't mean you won.
And the shelves are full of buried books, and the cat is calling from the eaves. The sun rises so slowly that it feels like persuasion. Daylight coming on like seduction, like the inevitable that never arrives. The desk full of love letters, the notebook full of poems. The windows lean in, but they'll never tell. The doors open up to everyone, but they can never know.
The answer is in the reverb, the answer is in the bridge. Each verse seems worse than the one that made you love the song, but you can't help but listen, can't help but hope. All these questions pressed up against the glass, all these secrets pressed in sleepy pages, everything cut off from this glimpse of your world. What you crave could be just around the corner, what you want might be hidden in this meager portion. The day begins again, all blank slate and crib notes. This might be that fresh start they talk about. This might be the day you win.