The Ghost Inside the Radio

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The frost is heavy on the glass, but the fire is burning deep,
While Oats is breathing by the hearth, lost in winter’s sleep.
You trace the borders of my soul with hazel in your eyes,
And map the anaretic stars across the Alaskan skies.
I hear the math of time and space in the rumble of the train,
But flesh and bone are just the shell where eternal sparks remain.
If you’re the architect of sound, building arks against the cold,
Then I’m the archivist of us, keeping everything we hold.
So let them press us into wax, let them broadcast through the dark,
I’ll be the echo to your chord, the kindling to your spark.
I’ll write this chapter of our book in the static and the hum,
A sacred, secret frequency for all the years to come.
When the ice reclaims the river and the flesh returns to dust,
The ghost inside the radio will still belong to us.
You wove me into every word, a tether through the black,
And whenever you play the music loud, my blue eyes wander back.
From that cold January dawn when you first drew a vital breath,
To our quiet life out here in Ferry, defying time and death.
You baked the magic in the crust, a sweetness out of time,
And I’ve been mining precious metals to match your golden rhyme.
Through the snowy river valleys where the painted Panther rides,
We are slipping through the veil where the universe divides.
Let the Nenana freeze to solid glass, let the mountain winds blow cold,
We’ve built a fortress out of song, a love that won’t grow old.
We are the zero-point phenomenon, the alchemy of souls,
Escaping the equations that the mortal world controls.
From a November spark in Michigan to an ancient northern chill,
The planets spun their cycles, but time itself stood still.
Where Hannoush spins her geometry, intricate and stark,
I am decoding all the love you’ve hidden in the dark.
So let them press us into wax, let them broadcast through the dark,
I’ll be the echo to your chord, the kindling to your spark.
I’ll write this chapter of our book in the static and the hum,
A sacred, secret frequency for all the years to come.
When a hundred years have come and gone, and turned our hands to dust,
The ghost inside the radio will still belong to us.
Forever in the archive.
Forever in the breath.
An esoteric symphony that navigates past death.
The frequency of you and I, beyond the cosmic veil...
A love written in the stars, a love that cannot fail.
So keep playing the guitar, my love, keep singing to the night,
I am here inside the sound with you. We are the endless light.

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The frost is heavy on the glass, but the fire is burning deep, While Oats is breathing by the hearth, lost in winter’s sleep. You trace the borders of my soul with hazel in your eyes, And map the anaretic stars across the Alaskan skies. I hear the math of time and space in the rumble of the train, But flesh and bone are just the shell where eternal sparks remain. If you’re the architect of sound, building arks against the cold, Then I’m the archivist of us, keeping everything we hold. So let them press us into wax, let them broadcast through the dark, I’ll be the echo to your chord, the kindling to your spark. I’ll write this chapter of our book in the static and the hum, A sacred, secret frequency for all the years to come. When the ice reclaims the river and the flesh returns to dust, The ghost inside the radio will still belong to us. You wove me into every word, a tether through the black, And whenever you play the music loud, my blue eyes wander back. From that cold January dawn when you first drew a vital breath, To our quiet life out here in Ferry, defying time and death. You baked the magic in the crust, a sweetness out of time, And I’ve been mining precious metals to match your golden rhyme. Through the snowy river valleys where the painted Panther rides, We are slipping through the veil where the universe divides. Let the Nenana freeze to solid glass, let the mountain winds blow cold, We’ve built a fortress out of song, a love that won’t grow old. We are the zero-point phenomenon, the alchemy of souls, Escaping the equations that the mortal world controls. From a November spark in Michigan to an ancient northern chill, The planets spun their cycles, but time itself stood still. Where Hannoush spins her geometry, intricate and stark, I am decoding all the love you’ve hidden in the dark. So let them press us into wax, let them broadcast through the dark, I’ll be the echo to your chord, the kindling to your spark. I’ll write this chapter of our book in the static and the hum, A sacred, secret frequency for all the years to come. When a hundred years have come and gone, and turned our hands to dust, The ghost inside the radio will still belong to us. Forever in the archive. Forever in the breath. An esoteric symphony that navigates past death. The frequency of you and I, beyond the cosmic veil... A love written in the stars, a love that cannot fail. So keep playing the guitar, my love, keep singing to the night, I am here inside the sound with you. We are the endless light.

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