Noah Bennett

My brother knocked during the best line, asked if I wanted tea, and accidentally gave the ending somewhere to breathe. The knock stays.

The room held nine chairs, seven listeners, one bad cable, and the first chorus I have sung without the bedroom wall returning it.

Bus fare, rent contribution, groceries, strings. This is not glamorous accounting, but the guitar finally holds tune through the bridge.

Rain on the glass, driver humming, four people asleep. I whispered the melody into my phone before the stop erased it.

Restocking tins beside the refrigeration hum when the high part appeared. I sang it once into my sleeve and went back for a voice note.