Room 702 by Under Morrigans Spell
Room 702
Intro
A lone piano leans against the night,
Every chord a window left on light.
Trumpet breathes like it’s learning your name,
Down the hall, nothing sounds the same.
Verse 1
The carpet’s worn where the stories pass,
Years of heels and a future of glass.
You knock once—like you might change your mind,
I open the door and leave it behind.
City flickers through Venetian lines,
Time loosens up, unties its spine.
Pre-Chorus
We don’t ask why, we don’t ask when,
The room already knows how this ends.
Chorus
Room 702, where the truth goes dim,
Where the air tastes blue and the lights grow slim.
No records kept, no debts to pay,
Just a borrowed hour we’ll misplace.
Room 702, let the night pretend,
We’re strangers who won’t have to defend.
Verse 2
Your jacket falls like a soft confession,
The lamp hums low with bad intentions.
Piano spills something bittersweet,
Like a memory stumbling over its feet.
Ice cracks once in a glass of doubt,
Every sound louder than what we leave out.
Pre-Chorus
The trumpet bends where the words won’t go,
Plays the part we don’t need to know.
Chorus
Room 702, hear the walls lean in,
Every breath is a beautiful sin.
No names spoken, no past allowed,
Just a quiet storm and a velvet crowd.
Room 702, hold the frame,
Let the night forget our names.
[Instrumental Interlude]
Verse 3
Your shadow dances on borrowed light,
Moves like it’s done this every night.
I trace a crack in the porcelain sink,
Trying not to think what the morning will think.
Somewhere a siren learns how to cry,
Somewhere else, we stop asking why.
Bridge
If this was clean, it wouldn’t feel right,
If it was wrong, it wouldn’t be this quiet.
So we stay suspended, a held-out tone,
Not together, not alone.
Chorus
Room 702, where the clock gives up,
Hands hang loose on a chipped white cup.
No promises made, none to break,
Just a moment too real to fake.
Room 702, let the night decide,
What we leave here and what walks outside.
Verse 4
Morning waits on the other side,
Tapping its watch, swallowing pride.
You write nothing, fold it twice,
Leave it blank like professional advice.
The piano shuts its eyes again,
Trumpet sighs like “not now… when?”
Final Chorus
Room 702, let it fade to gray,
Another story the hotel won’t say.
No echoes chase us down the hall,
Just the softest click and that’s all.
Room 702, when the doors close soon,
The night still swings, slightly out of tune.
Outro
One last chord.
Trumpet holds, then slips away.
Elevator hums.
Room 702 forgets us.