[Intro]
Ceiling. Day one. It's nothing.
People miss days. Statistically.
I'm not counting.
(...I'm counting.)
[Verse 1]
Monday, seven thirty sharp, and no green bag on the floor
Okay. Rest day. Deload week. There's a list of doors
Tuesday: maybe two-a-days went afternoon this week
Wednesday I stayed till nine — don't say it — Thursday couldn't eat
Friday made it five for five. A whole week, clean, no show
It's variance. It's data noise. It's fine. (It's not.) I know.
[Verse 2]
By week two the theories filed themselves from bad to worse:
He's sick. He crashed. He moved away. Or — hear me out — it's her fault, hers
Meaning mine. I said good morning and I broke the whole machine
Like seven letters cracked a man who benches everything
So I checked the private insta that I'm still not following
Locked. Of course. My whole archive, and not one thread to pull
[Chorus]
Two weeks of mornings, seven thirty sharp
And the standard's not there
I know his schedule, know his lore, know his coffee order — probably
And I don't know if he's okay, and I've got no right to ask
'Cause rights like that get built out loud
And I built mine in the dark
Two weeks of mornings
Research doesn't reach that far
[Verse 3]
Saturday I came in anyway — and I don't DO Saturdays
Told myself it's for the treadmill. Sis. I hate the treadmill. Anyways.
Desk girl says he "sometimes" does weekends. Sometimes. Cool. Okay. Great.
So even empty rest days can't be ruled out. Love that. Data can't cooperate.
Even the morning crew came up empty, even the ones he daps
The whole floor runs on his presence and nobody has his maps
[Verse 4]
Day fifteen. Monday. Seven thirty-one. The green bag hit the ground.
And the floor came back to life like somebody turned the sound on
"Saw you weren't here — everything good?" — three people, maybe four
And me two racks away, headphones on, transparency mode, eyes on the floor
"Teaching," he said. "Contract thing. Philadelphia. Wharton's venture lab."
...Wharton. Obviously. Of course. The basement has a basement. Add it to the map.
[Chorus]
Two weeks of mornings, seven thirty sharp
And the standard wasn't there
He was building other people at a school I grew up hearing prayers about
And I aged a year per morning that I had no right to count
'Cause rights like that get built out loud
And I built mine in the dark
Two weeks of mornings
Research doesn't reach that far
[Bridge]
Two weeks. For him: a line item. An invoice. A hotel.
For me: a whole entire act, a rise, a fall, a spell
And that's the part that humbled me, more than the panic did
The people with the right to worry — they get told. They're in.
You don't earn "in" with archives
You don't earn "in" with flags
You earn it out loud, over time, with stakes
Everything else is glass
[Outro]
Day sixteen. Tuesday. Seven thirty. Green bag. Earth turning. Fine.
I almost didn't say it — felt like starting the whole climb
Then: "morning." Out loud. Him: "morning." Nod. An earbud out. Back in.
Two weeks was nothing. Two weeks was everything.
Both are true. Stay with me.
(...day one. Again. On purpose.)
The_SCAR
