It was a song. Just a song. Played softly in some dim corner of a roadside diner or hummed beneath the breath of someone remembering what used to be. But not all songs are just songs. Some are confessions. Others are escape plans.
This one? This one was a farewell letter. Set to music.
Cliff & Susan, the married duo known for singing other people’s stories as well as their own, released a song called “West Virginia” in May of 2025. And from the very first note, you know… this is not your typical country tune.
No steel-plated pickup trucks or neon beer signs here. No feel-good fiddle breaks or boot-stomping backbeats. Instead, there’s a man. A woman. A long history. And the quiet, devastating moment where love meets its end.
The song tells the story of a young couple, friends since childhood. He was ten. She was nine. They grew up together, fell in love — or at least thought they did — and got married because, well, isn’t that what people do?
But the story, like so many real ones, doesn’t stay in that sun-drenched innocence. Over time, the smiles fade. Words go unspoken. The shared house starts to feel less like a home and more like a memory. And eventually… he’s standing in the kitchen, leaving a letter on the stove.
He’s not angry. He’s not cruel. He’s just… done. “You know this don’t feel like home to me anymore,” he says. So he leaves. Heading west. To Tacoma, maybe. Or San Francisco Bay. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s not staying.
And the irony? Her name is Virginia. Which makes his goodbye even more final.
“I’m going west, Virginia,” he sings.
Not just west. Away from her. From everything.
It’s a clever lyric. Painfully clever. The kind that stings a little when it lands. Because you’ve probably been there, haven’t you? Staring out the window, wondering if the road ahead is worth the wreckage behind.
Cliff sings it in a voice worn soft by time. Not angry, not bitter — just tired. The kind of tired that comes from pretending too long. Susan’s harmonies wrap around him like a memory. Faint, echoing. A reminder of what once was.
Behind them, the music swells. Subtle, rich, and cinematic. Produced and mixed by Nashville’s Colt Capperrune, the song was their first to be released in Dolby Atmos, a sonic space wide enough to hold every sigh, every pause, every note of longing. And you hear it — in the steel guitar played by Smith Curry, the keys from Gabe Klein, the restrained percussion from Lester Estelle Jr. Each note feels like a step farther from home.
And then there’s the setting. The visual companion to this song wasn’t filmed on a soundstage or beneath bright lights. It was captured inside the weathered walls of the old McKinney Cotton Mill in Fort Worth, Texas. A place where time seems to linger. Where ghosts hang in corners. Where echoes tell stories.
Just like this one.
Cliff & Susan have always been storytellers. They live on the road, play over 200 shows a year, and run their own independent label. They’ve shared stages with legends and built their success the hard way. But with “West Virginia,” they aren’t trying to impress anyone. They’re just telling a story. And in doing so, they’ve tapped into something achingly human.
Because sometimes, love isn’t enough. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is leave. And sometimes, a goodbye sounds less like a slam of a door… and more like a song playing softly as you drive away.
“West Virginia” is more than a track. It’s a moment. A memory. A quiet reckoning. And when it’s over, it doesn’t let go.
It stays with you.
–Kevin Morris