Flick Of A Broken Wrist

Verse 1

The light slides off the windowsill like a coin I cannot catch,

A coffee cup trembles, then it settles into match.

You taught me how to measure time by the tilt of your hand,

Now every little motion is a map I don’t understand.

Pre-Chorus

There’s a tremor in the doorway where your shadow used to rest,

A language made of fractures that I never learned to guess.

Chorus

One small flick of a broken wrist and the world rearranged,

A quiet arithmetic where the ordinary’s estranged.

I count the cost in tiny things you used to do with ease,

And every careless movement brings me back down to my knees.

Verse 2

The photograph is crooked, like the truth we tried to frame,

Your handwriting on the margin still signs my name.

A ribbon on the banister, a coat left on a chair,

The house keeps all the gestures like a ledger of the air.

Pre-Chorus

I practice how to hold a cup without the tremor showing through,

But muscle learns the memory of the way it learned of you.

Chorus

One small flick of a broken wrist and the world rearranged,

A quiet arithmetic where the ordinary’s estranged.

I count the cost in tiny things you used to do with ease,

And every careless movement brings me back down to my knees.

Bridge

Maybe healing is a rumor that the body tells the bone,

Maybe patience is a currency we spend when we’re alone.

There’s grace in crooked angles, there’s mercy in the scar,

A crooked hand can still make music if you learn to play the part.

Breakdown

The clock forgets the seconds, the floor remembers weight,

I learn to read the silence like a language of the late.

A flick becomes a promise, a pause becomes a wish,

I keep the small, imperfect things that fit inside your fist.

Chorus Variation

One small flick of a broken wrist and the world rearranged,

The smallest acts become the proof that nothing stays the same.

I count the cost in tiny things and find the courage to believe,

That even broken motion can be taught again to breathe.

Outro

So I fold the day like paper and I mend it with my hands,

Trace the arc of absence until it learns to stand.

One small flick, one careful touch, a slow and steady twist,

Learning how to move again with a flick of a broken wrist.