[Intro — Bare acoustic guitar, distant AM radio static. A warm, weathered baritone, almost spoken.] I turned the radio on last night, Went looking for a song I used to know. Funny how the ones that used to move me Don't have anywhere left to go. [Verse 1 — Fingerpicked guitar, restrained percussion] You sang like Billie, looked like Taylor, Smiled like Shania, laughed like Dolly. You could make a crowded room feel holy, Make a foolish man mistake it for calling. You knew the words to every love song, Every promise, every pretty little lie. But when I asked you what forever meant, You just sang the chorus one more time. [Pre-Chorus — Bass enters, vocal climbs from low baritone to aching upper register] And I kept waiting for a sentence That nobody else had said. You kept handing me the same old answers In a different shade of red. [Chorus — Full roots-rock band, soaring, melodic, emotionally raw] They wrote a million songs with five hundred words, Every broken heart repeating what it heard. You had a voice that could move mountains, But nothing underneath to move the earth. I wanted chapters, you gave me headlines, Wanted the truth between the lines. You kept singing what the world already knew, And I ran out of ways to get through to you. [Verse 2 — Electric guitar answers each vocal phrase; darker, more intimate] I started grieving you in March, Though you didn't die till fall. By the time they said you'd left us, I'd already lost you all. Nobody came to bring me flowers, Nobody lowered any flags. You were still sleeping in our bedroom, While I was learning how to pack. I watched you standing in the kitchen, Reading headlines on your phone. You asked me why I'd gotten quiet. I said, “I thought you'd already known.” [Pre-Chorus — Tension rises, drums half-time] I wasn't asking for a masterpiece, Or poetry carved into stone. Just something only you could tell me, Something that was ours alone. [Chorus — Bigger harmonies, electric guitars widening] They wrote a million songs with five hundred words, Every broken heart repeating what it heard. You had a voice that could move mountains, But nothing underneath to move the earth. I wanted chapters, you gave me headlines, Wanted the truth between the lines. You kept singing what the world already knew, And I ran out of ways to get through to you. [Bridge — Instruments drop to upright piano and faint tape hiss. Vulnerable low-register vocal, gradually rising.] I used to think that love was language, That knowing words meant knowing hearts. But you could say you loved me perfectly And never tell me who you are. And maybe I was guilty too, Of needing every silence filled. Maybe you were speaking plainly And I was chasing something unreal. But I can't live inside a chorus Just because I know the tune. And I can't call a house a home Because the furniture's still in the room. [Final Chorus — Explosive roots-rock climax, rough-edged vocals, then band drops away on final lines] They wrote a million songs with five hundred words, Every lonely soul repeating what it heard. You had a voice that could move mountains, But we never learned to move the earth. I wanted chapters, you gave me headlines, Wanted the truth between the lines. I don't hate the songs we used to sing, They just don't mean the same damn thing. [Outro — Solo acoustic guitar, radio dial turning through faint stations. Intimate spoken-sung delivery.] I turned the radio off last night. Not because the music wasn't good. It was beautiful. It just didn't have anything left to tell me. If you want to be moved, you write your own verses. [Silence.]
