My Flame - Acoustic

Some promises only come out when things are already cracking. The opening feels like someone at the edge of leaving, trying to sound steady: “I don’t want you to worry I’ll be home by your side.” It’s not just reassurance, it’s a way of covering for all the times “soon” didn’t mean soon. The song follows the kind of conversation that should end, but doesn’t. It circles the same need again and again: to fix what’s breaking, to close the distance, to make the other person feel safe. The love is real, but it isn’t light. It keeps having to prove itself. It offers “you’ll never be lonely” and at the same time carries the fear that it might not be enough. So much of the strain lives in what stays unsaid. “Quietly” repeats like a reflex, like holding your breath so panic doesn’t show. Sorry starts to lose meaning. Fault gets softened. Then one line turns the whole relationship into an image you can’t shake: “What if your soul is my flame and my life is your candle.” It’s tender, but it’s also a warning. A flame needs fuel. A candle gives light by slowly disappearing. The bond feels warm and draining at the same time. As it goes on, the song stops pretending everything is fine. It admits that something has shifted. “You don’t think I’m still the same me” lands like the moment someone realizes they’ve been chasing the old version of a love that’s already changed. And when it mentions, “You’re on the pills it’s almost daily” it doesn’t turn into a speech. It just lets the fact sit there, heavy, familiar, and hard to touch. By the end, it feels like being stuck in the same cycle: still trying, still reaching, still afraid to let go even when holding on hurts. It’s about two people clinging with tired hands, trying to find their way back to each other, trying to be the reason the other one keeps going, even when there isn’t much left to burn.