Four Chairs, Three Plates

[Verse 1 — deep male baritone; low acoustic guitar with a slow, uneven pulse] She cooked too much again tonight, Then said the portions looked about right. I watched her reach into the stack, Pull four white dinner plates out back. She set mine down, then hers beside, Our daughter's there on the other side. Then one more plate beneath his chair— And both of us just left it there. Nobody moved. Nobody ate. Four chairs. Three plates. [Verse 2 — rhythm becomes more restless; restrained vocal] His bedroom's still the same upstairs, Unmade bed and broken chair. One muddy shoe beneath the frame, A baseball glove without his name. She goes inside when I'm at work. I know because his shirts get turned. Sometimes the window's open wide. Sometimes his pillow changes sides. I never ask what she does there. She never asks why I'm downstairs. We learned that grief can separate Four chairs from three plates. [Instrumental — detuned acoustic guitars trade an irregular figure; bass enters halfway through] [Verse 3 — longer lines; vocal grows rougher] People thought we'd hold on tight, Sleep tangled up through every night. They brought us food and said, "Stay strong. You'll need each other moving on." But she remembers what he wore. I remember shutting the door. She wants to speak his name aloud. I leave the room and walk around. She thinks my silence means I blame her. I think her crying means she blames me. Neither one will ask outright, So both assumptions live each night. There wasn't just one grave that day. Something between us went away. [Refrain — first and only melodic refrain; clean vocal] We lost the boy who filled this home, Then lost the way to hurt as one. She grieves too loud, I grieve too late, Between four chairs and three plates. No hand to hold, no words to say, No fair exchange, no debt to pay. Just one less voice and one more place At four chairs, three plates. [Verse 4 — suddenly short; guitar only] She stopped sleeping next to me. Said my breathing wouldn't let her sleep. I knew that wasn't really why. I moved downstairs that night. Neither said goodbye. [Breakdown — heavy acoustic body percussion; clipped delivery] One toothbrush gone. One winter coat. One birthday card He never wrote. One empty desk. One missing weight. One family split By one cruel date. She keeps his pictures. I keep his glove. Neither knows what happened to us. [Bridge — everything drops except a single low guitar] Tonight she set the table twice. Four plates the first time. Then realized. She stood there holding his in place, Both hands trembling at her waist. I could've crossed the kitchen floor. I would've years ago, before. Instead she put his plate away. I stared down. Had nothing to say. [Final Verse — very sparse; no return to refrain] Our daughter ate and went upstairs. Her empty chair stayed sitting there. My wife washed dishes at the sink. I watched the water, watched her blink. We stood six feet apart all night, Two people who once fit just right. A boy we loved had sealed our fate— And left us here with four chairs, three plates. [Outro — instrumental only; acoustic figure stops one beat earlier than expected]