Shifty Brent - Where the Room Turns Slow

Your Sunday paper waited there.
A matchbook folded in your name,
Still smells faintly of smoke and rain.
I hear your laugh inside the hall,
Soft as a photograph against the wall.
Come sit with me where the room turns slow,
Where the old clock learns what it doesn't know.
No promises left for us to defend, just your hand and mine,