Dark first. Then a quick beat already walking through thick air.

Her voice comes in close and grave, set into the pattern more than thrown.

Still composed here. The line turns colder while the pulse keeps catching you.

Ceremonial now. The bell is in the words, and the beat keeps time like a mechanism.

There it is. Won’t you dance, asked under restraint, until the question starts to feel like a spell.

Dreams turn on her. Low vocal heat, brighter images, same smooth dangerous surface.

Old ways kicking in. A little snap in the phrase, and the rhythm already knows the relapse.

American darkness. Not an explanation. Weather.

Dance comes back harder now. Less invitation, more summons.

Cause I’m coming. The ask flips. She’s naming the approach, and the pulse feels fated for it.

Down to a fragment. When you come, circling, each pass another step toward the door.

Back to me. Small release at the edge. The room loosens, it doesn’t open.