I Wrote This Instead of Screaming

I drove past the county line,
where the signal bled to static snow. 
In the night humming with haunted songs,
I chased a voice I used to know. 

Each station faltered with echoes, 
half a hymn, half borrowed breath.
I spun the dial for one clear word,
to pull a signal from the death.

I'm not lost, I'm just between stations,
tuned to ghosts and old refrains.
Every static whisper I dismiss
sings the truth I can't confess.
I'm not lost, I'm just between stations. 

The road unfurled like memory,
each mile conjuring a ghost.
Every word I left unspoken
stood like a line of telephone posts.

You came to me in fleeting bits,
in laughter, fights, and summer rain.
You were the song unfinished, 
the one I can't replay the same. 

I'm not lost, I'm just between stations,
tuned to ghosts and old refrains.
Every static whisper I dismiss
sings the truth I can't confess.
I'm not lost, I'm just between stations. 

There's comfort in the chaos now,
a rhythm hidden in the ache. 
Tonight, I almost found the words,
but again, the signal chose to break.

Maybe healing isn't a clear channel,
just learning to love the noise it brings.
Maybe peace is found inside the crackle,
not in the silent, final things. 

I'm not lost, I'm just between stations,
half a prayer, half revelation.
If I never find a clearer sound,
maybe I was never meant for solid ground.
I'm not lost...
just between stations.