[Intro]
Ceiling. No incident tonight. No encounter. Nobody said anything to anybody.
This is a progress report.
Turns out those exist.
[Verse 1]
Eleven weeks since "stay out of my way," and here's the way I found:
Head up, same rack, seven thirty, and I put two-twenty-five on the ground
Clean. Slow negative. HIS cue. (Still not telling you the cue.)
And the kid who films his "grind" asked ME to check his hinge. I did. It's true.
[Verse 2]
And the bookshelf's not a prop now — his book's finished, dog-eared, mine
Machines and trust and why the loud ones fail — I wrote a PAPER off it, cited, fine
Changed my minor Tuesday. Marketing stays, but analytics rides along
'Cause "cute don't compound" needed a portfolio, and now the portfolio's begun
[Chorus]
Reps. Just reps. That's the whole song, ceiling
Nothing cinematic, nothing viral, nothing worth a post
The bar goes up in tiny answers
The shelf fills up in quiet blows
Nobody claps for Tuesday
But Tuesday's where it grows
Reps. Just reps.
(...she's watching. I know she's watching.)
[Verse 3]
'Cause here's the thing I've clocked, and I've said nothing, and I won't:
The one who briefed me runs her circuits, and her eyes do inventory
She's seen the bar, the book in my bag, the head I keep up now
No word. No nod. Eleven weeks. But watchers know when watchers count.
And the semaphore division flags away, same flags, same wind, same shore
And I don't judge them anymore, ceiling. I just don't live there anymore.
[Verse 4]
And him? A morning, most mornings. A question, some weeks. Both earbuds twice.
No coffee, no plan, no move — the want's still there and still unnamed
But it's quieter now, it hums instead of screams, and here's my read:
I stopped auditioning for a life and started running one instead
And the strangest part, the part I'd never have believed in chapter one:
The days I don't see him at all — they count the same. The reps still run.
[Chorus]
Reps. Just reps. That's the whole song, ceiling
Two-twenty-five, a minor, a paper, a shelf
The bar goes up in tiny answers
And I'm the progressive overload of myself
Nobody claps for Tuesday
But I'm built of Tuesdays now
Reps. Just reps.
(...and she's watching. Good.)
[Bridge]
There is no spectator's rep — she never said it, he half did, I finished it
And eleven weeks of evidence beats any speech I could've pitched
I didn't stay out of her way
I didn't get in it either
I just built, in plain sight, on the record, where the watchers watch
Let the audit come
[Outro]
Progress report filed, ceiling:
Bar: up. Shelf: full. Minor: changed. Want: unnamed, humming, patient.
No incidents. Eleven weeks. All reps.
Let the audit come.
(...any day now)
The_SCAR
