I wasn’t looking for anything but a refill.
I didn’t expect the kind of silence that changes a room.
Then everything shifted.
She entered like the answer to a question I’d buried years ago.
Her eyes didn’t blink—they just stared straight through the noise.
I dropped my change and forgot what I was buying.
The jukebox skipped like it knew something was happening.
No smile, no nod—just presence, and the whole place felt warmer.
I stood still like a man who’d just remembered his own name.
I’ve seen beauty dressed in diamonds and disaster,
but this was grace with a heartbeat and no warning.
The world got quiet and my past got loud.
Sleep felt foreign and pretending lost its grip.
Time forgot its job and every line I’d written unraveled.
Shock came gentle, like thunder wrapped in velvet.
Love didn’t knock—it rewired the room.
She ordered coffee like it was a sacred ritual.
Her voice had the rhythm of someone who’s lived through storms.
I tried to speak but my words came out sideways.
She laughed once and it echoed like a hymn.
Cream stirred like paint on canvas, and I memorized the motion.
That spoon held more grace than most sermons I’ve heard.
Names didn’t matter because the moment already knew us.
Stories didn’t need telling because the silence filled them in.
Staying wasn’t a question—it was already happening.
Signs weren’t needed when the air itself was singing.
The jukebox played a brand-new song and I knew where I belonged.
Breath came easier and the room felt like home.
Every chord I’d ever strummed made sense in that instant.
She didn’t change me—she revealed what was already waiting.
She walked in.
And I’m still catching my breath.
still catching my breath.
still catching my breath.

All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
For more ride-and-rock tracks, click here: https://soundcloud.com/edwin-balder/sets/rusty-marshall-band?si=c5040230a7334213b5d7609527997d7c&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

She Walked In Rusty Marshall Band

In the shadows of Apache Junction, at the foot of the majestic Superstition Mountains, sits a weathered hacienda. This desert oasis is home to an enigmatic figure, a songwriter whose journey reads like a long, dusty road of honky-tonk bars and college cafeterias. He wasn't chasing fame or glitter; instead, he chose the soul-crushing beauty of music for music's sake.

Years spent hunched over sticky barroom tables and scribbling lyrics on napkins earned him a reputation—not in the spotlight but in the back rooms where deals are made. He wrote melodies that found their way into the hearts of stars who had lost their own muse. He sold his creations for cash, with no recognition, but the whisper of his songs carried the weight of his soul.

Finally, he bought this piece of desert paradise—a stable income from his timeless songs allowed him to live comfortably, if anonymously. Here in this hacienda, with his family beside him and the mountains as his backdrop, he found the peace to write hits under his own name. He chuckled at the irony that now, without chasing fame, he could create music that brought him joy.

In the end, it was never about the spotlight. It was about the journey, the stories, and the songs that wrote themselves through his life. As the sun set behind the Superstitions, casting long shadows over the hacienda, he strummed his guitar and sang—content, unknown, and unburdened by the world's gaze.


Copyright 2019 Edwin H. Balder

I may be dead when fame comes but my real glory was always JULIE & The Kids. Thank you for such love

She Walked In Rusty Marshall Band

Edwin Balder