[Intro] (Nylon guitar, close and circular) (Felt piano taps a single high note) (Fretless bass breathes in late) [Verse 1] Ice doesn’t clink when it’s just one, The fridge hums a tune I almost know. I washed this glass before you came down, Now it’s full again, and the hours slow. You ask about my day like it matters, I skim the chapters, leave the spine unbroken. [Chorus] And it’s not what I say, It’s the space where I pause. The way you don’t look away When the sentence dissolves. Just a refill, a smile, Sitting here a little while — In the quiet, in the gentle, in the almost. [Verse 2] I talk about the weather — something safe, My laugh sounds practiced, even to me. You lean on the counter, half in shadow, Half in light, and suddenly too close to be. The tile stays cool beneath my feet, The night feels tender, incomplete. [Bridge] (half-spoken) They say you can’t go home again, But what if home is the chair you’re in? The way the lamplight finds your face — A softer kind of quiet in this place. [Instrumental Interlude] (Guitar repeats its loop) (Piano rises, unsure) (Bass walks a careful line) (Granular memory hums) [Chorus – softer] And it’s not what I mean, It’s the breath before thought. The warmth left in the seam Of a sentence we dropped. Just a glance, just a pour, Wanting nothing more Than the quiet, than the gentle, than the almost. [Outro] (whispered) Glass is empty. The night deepens. Your shoulder brushed mine as you turned to leave. I didn’t move. I didn’t move. (Guitar unravels) (Piano holds, unresolved) (A glass rests on the counter)
