Choreographing the Closeness He Can't Feel

Lyrics

A stack of paper, bound in twine.
Found where the coconut crabs cross the tarmac at night.
Your ink is faded by the salt and heat.

The B-52s used this runway.
48 degrees of shimmering asphalt in June.
And here you are.
"I can't stop thinking about your mouth."
"The sound you made on the phone last night."
These words, they don't belong on Diego Garcia.
Not here, in the outer Chagos, where no personal mail is allowed.
Just the low throb of the base and the smell of jet fuel.

And they called him Awkward Andy.
The man who maps the kiss.
Choreographing the closeness he can't feel?
Or is this the proof?
The one thing he felt too much.
He stages the passion for Hollywood.
But what about this?

On set, it's all numbers and consent.
"Okay, on three, your hand on her waist."
"Hold for five beats, then the look."
A closed set. Quiet, please.
But this page here, this one is shouting.
This one is torn at the edge.
A coffee stain, or maybe tears.
The words are not choreographed.
They're a mess. They're alive.

And they called him Awkward Andy.
The man who maps the kiss.
Choreographing the closeness he can't feel?
Or is this the proof?
The one thing he felt too much.
He stages the passion for Hollywood.
But what about this?

To map the body like a landscape.
To direct the breath.
To make a stranger's touch look like a secret known for years.
Is it a skill? A trick of the light?
Or did he learn it from you, this paper?
Did he leave the source code here?
On a restricted island.
A secret in the heart of a bigger secret.

Just these letters.
And the question they ask the empty runway.
Can you direct it...
...if you can't feel it?