Autopilot heart

I still say I love you
like I mean it.
And I do.
But it don’t sound the same
when I say it tired.
I hold your hand
without thinking.
Kiss your cheek
like it’s part of the checklist.
Not cold —
just…
repetitive.
I’m here.
You’re here.
But we’ve been here
so long
I forget what new felt like.
Autopilot heart.
Still beating.
Still warm.
Still pulling up the words,
just not with the same fire
that built them.
You call it distance.
I call it rhythm.
You ask me
what I’m thinking about.
I say “nothing.”
But really?
It’s everything
all at once.
Mostly quiet stuff.
Mostly dust.
I still care.
But my brain’s been buffering
since last week.
Love’s still in here.
It’s just in sleep mode.
Still working,
but background only.
Still trying
to catch up
to who I was
when I was good at this.
Autopilot heart.
Not gone.
Just… coasting.
Still in the room.
Still saying the right words.
Still holding on —
even if my grip
got quieter.
I’ve been tired
in a way sleep don’t fix.
Been missing you
while looking right at you.
Not because you’re distant —
because I feel far
from myself.
I’m not empty.
I’m… occupied.
Worn down
by everything that didn’t
make it into our conversations.
The weight I didn’t mention
so you wouldn’t feel it too.
And maybe that’s love,
in its quieter form.
Not loud declarations,
but soft survival.
Saying “I’m here”
when it’d be easier
to drift.
Autopilot heart.
Still checking in.
Still tracing your name
in my head
like muscle memory.
Still calling this home—
even when it echoes.
Maybe I don’t say it
like I used to.
But that doesn’t mean
I don’t feel it
just as much.
I just
don’t always have
the right kind of silence
to show it.

metal, post-grunge trap-metal, alt-mix