[Intro] [Verse 1] (whisper — barely there) I still set two cups… and then I remember. I still turn too fast… like you’ll be in the doorway. (choked breath) The air is full of “almost”. Your little weight… that never got heavy. I hate the quiet— it doesn’t comfort. It wins. [Verse 2] (parlando, shaky; tears audible) There’s a photo I can’t look at. There’s a name I can’t say loud. They tell me: “It was nothing.” (voice cracks) Nothing doesn’t leave milk in my chest. Nothing doesn’t make my hands reach for a blanket that isn’t there. (gasp) I fold it anyway. I fold it anyway. [Bridge] (intimate confession; words breaking) I watched them turn my life into paperwork. A stamp. A line. A blank. They erased you with polite voices— as if kindness could make it clean. (sob, then whisper) But my body remembers the truth in bruises of light, in phantom kicks, in a hunger that has no mouth. [Chorus / Climax] (still spoken—desperate; one or two words nearly cry-shouted) Don’t tell me you were “never here.” Don’t say my arms are “empty” like it’s neutral. I carried a sun under my ribs— and you don’t get to call it weather. (voice breaks hard) Let the ceiling crack. Let the world hear what it did. My child existed— and I’m not asking permission to miss you. [Verse 3] (whisper; exhausted; pauses) Some nights I rehearse a life— first steps… first laugh… first word… and then I stop, because imagination is just another kind of bleeding. (breathless) I hate how hope survives. I hate how it crawls back. I hate how love has nowhere to go so it turns into pain. [Outro] (piano down to one repeating note; long silence between lines) I will find you… even if I have to… tear the calendar apart day… by… day… (whisper, shattered) They can forget. I can’t. I can’t.
