[Instrumental Opening] Fifty-two weeks. God... when did that happen? [Verse 1] I think he took the mornings first— not all of them, just that quiet little hour before the whole world gets loud, coffee cooling in my hand, that private kind of nothing I was always pretty good at shutting people out of. Now he's there in every early thing, in the window, in the steam, in whatever song gets caught beneath my breath, and somewhere “leave me alone” became “stay a little longer”— without asking me first. That's strange. I usually remember everything I give away. [Hook] Little by little— God, that's clever. Never enough missing to know it was gone. A kiss here, a Sunday somewhere... and now I'm counting what he stole like something I won. [Verse 2] My favorite songs are compromised, the right side of the bed has somehow lost its independence, and certain words can't cross my mind without his face showing up halfway through the sentence. Ridiculous. My hand can find him in the dark now without waking me up for permission, and apparently sleeping all night has stopped feeling brave and started feeling suspicious. I used to be better at keeping things mine. At least— I think I was. Funny how hard that is to prove when I can't remember what I'm missing. [Hook] Little by little— God, that's clever. Never enough missing to know it was gone. A midnight here, a long drive somewhere... and now I'm counting what he stole like something I won. [Bridge] No broken window. No alarm. Nothing I could point to later and blame on charm or temporary bad judgment. Just one week leaning into another, one ordinary thing becoming ours before I noticed it had ever been mine. Fifty-two weeks of leaving the door unlocked until I couldn't remember what I locked it for. And maybe that should scare me. Maybe it would— if he weren't asleep beside me right now, breathing like he hasn't spent a year quietly stealing everything I swore I'd guard. And I'm lying here smiling. Because I finally caught him. [Refrain] Fifty-two. One by one. Quiet little stick-ups— and the bastard never even had to run. [Chorus] Fifty-two— stick up. Hands where he can hold 'em, heart on the table and somehow I never noticed. He got the guarded parts, the after-dark parts, the soft ones I swore weren't going anywhere again. A whole year gone— and the bastard got everything. And here's the part I probably shouldn't admit: if he woke up right now and reached for whatever's left... I'd give him that too. [Short Instrumental Break] [Final Verse] Fifty-two weeks. Huh. Happy anniversary... thief. [End]
