Verse 1
You step into rooms like they’ve been rearranged for you,
angles shifting without complaint.
No urgency, no spectacle —
just gravity dressed as restraint.
Your silence carries architecture,
measured, deliberate, clean.
I’ve seen devotion dressed as chaos.
This is something colder — pristine.
You speak in careful undertones,
never wasting breath on display.
Some people beg for attention.
You let it gravitate your way.
⸻
Pre-Chorus
No raised voice.
No reckless move.
Just implication
that something still improves.
⸻
Chorus
Call it collateral feeling,
emotion without debris.
No broken glass on the surface,
just liability.
Not possession — positioning.
Not surrender — release.
What survives in this arrangement
is desire on a leash.
⸻
Verse 2
Precision looks better on you
than passion ever could.
Impulses feel inexpensive.
Control feels misunderstood.
You don’t promise permanence —
you imply continuation.
A masterclass in staying present
without full participation.
There’s elegance in half-measures,
a discipline in delay.
Most people fall too quickly.
You calculate the sway.
⸻
Pre-Chorus
No trembling hands.
No dramatics.
Just chemistry
that feels strategic.
⸻
Chorus
Call it collateral feeling,
emotion without debris.
No visible fracture lines,
just quiet liability.
Not confession — composition.
Not hunger — design.
If this is what we’re building,
it’s beautifully undefined.
⸻
Bridge
Maybe intensity is overrated.
Maybe chaos is cliché.
Maybe what unsettles most
is what doesn’t give itself away.
There’s danger in the minimal,
in tension tightly wound.
Some fires burn the loudest
without making a sound.
No raised voice.
No reckless move.
Just chemistry
that feels strategic.
Call it….
Just call it…
⸻
Final Chorus
Call it collateral feeling,
nothing owed, nothing owned.
No vows carved into marble,
just pressure in the bones.
Not addiction — alignment.
Not need — consent.
If we walk away unbroken,
that might be the intent.
Call it collateral feeling,
nothing owed, nothing owned.
No vows carved into marble,
just pressure in the bones.
Not addiction — alignment.
Not need — consent.
If we walk away unbroken,
that might be the intent.
_NyraNoir_
