# DO NOT RESUSCITATE [Intro — 4/4] Two-seventeen. Unknown number. “Are you the emergency contact?” ...Apparently. [Section A] Shoes unlaced, hoodie backwards, keys in the cup, phone at four percent, elevator slow coming up. Admissions desk. VISITOR printed black. Lady says my full name like she’s checking a fact. “Relationship?” I nearly say, “Complicated.” She looks up. “Put whatever fits.” Coffee tastes like the cup. Clock eats another minute. Your coat’s on the chair, but there’s nobody in it. Blue pen on a chain. “Before you go in, there’s something we should talk—” Stop. [Section B — 4/4 → 7/8] No. Talk plain. Don’t lower your voice like volume makes mercy. Don’t wrap bad news in language soft enough to serve me. You called me at two with “urgent” in the sentence, now every noun wears padding, every verb needs clearance. “There are stated wishes.” Whose? “His.” Then why the hell is my name on the page? NO COMPRESSIONS. NO INTUBATION. Clean little columns for ways not to interfere. You always loved instructions when somebody else had to follow them. [Technical Escalation — 7/8 → 5/4] You leave me the syntax, practical grammar, subject quits breathing, object inherits the answer, predicate tethered to a pen by a cable, legal little leash at the lip of the table. “Sign here.” Sign where? “Initial beside—” No. You don’t get to vanish then appoint me the witness, turn absence administrative, distance into business, convert three years of silence to emergency contact, make neglect look official once somebody prints it in black. Last conversation: “Don’t make this harder.” Still got the text. Still didn’t answer. Funny what survives when the battery doesn’t. [Pre-Chorus — 6/8] Don’t hand me the pen. Don’t make it mine. You made the choice. Keep my name off the line. [Chorus] KEEP MY NAME OFF YOUR LINE. YOU MADE THE CHOICE. DON’T MAKE IT MINE. [Section C] Room twelve. Curtain halfway shut. Your glasses folded beside a paper cup. One sock twisted. Wristband spelling you correctly. First thing tonight that looks remotely like you. Machine gives numbers. Nobody translates them. “This is bullshit.” Nothing. “You could’ve called.” Nothing. “You had my number.” Monitor. “You used it now.” Monitor. I drag the chair closer with my foot. Not my hand. [Technical Escalation II] I cross-examine a body that can’t object, inventory Christmases, appointments, what we left, every “busy,” every voicemail shaved down to a shrug, every birthday passed through somebody else’s tongue. Then the ledger gets ugly. You missed my appointment. I missed your surgery. You sent “You good?” I sent “Yep.” Two experts in abbreviation calling distance courtesy. No villain. No clean acquittal. Just two men making silence look mutual. [Guitar stops.] [Voice crosses the empty bar] Somebody had to blink first. Neither did. [Instrumental Rupture — 7/8] [Brief chromatic riff built from the hook rhythm. Bass completes phrases the guitar interrupts. Sudden silence.] [Bridge — plain 4/4] Nurse comes back. I push the clipboard away. “I’m not signing that.” “You don’t have to.” ... “What?” “It’s already signed.” She turns the page. Your handwriting. Eleven months ago. Witnessed. Filed. Complete. My name isn’t under: DECISION. It’s under: CONTACT IN EVENT OF EMERGENCY. I read it twice. Then once more, because paper doesn’t change when you hate what it says. All night I’ve been furious you made me choose. You didn’t. [Silence] [Scream] YOU DIDN’T NEED MY PERMISSION. YOU NEEDED ME TO SHOW UP. [Breakdown — brutal 4/4] PUT MY NAME ON IT. Not the order. The chair. The coffee. The four-percent phone. PUT MY NAME ON IT. Three years reduced to thumbs hovering over “reply.” PUT MY NAME ON IT. The messages opened, answered in my head. PUT MY NAME ON IT. Not your death. My distance. [Final Chorus] KEEP MY NAME ON YOUR LINE. YOU MADE THE CHOICE. I’LL OWN WHAT’S MINE. [Outro] At four percent, my phone finally dies. I keep holding it. Your glasses stay folded. The chair stays pulled in.
