INTEREST COMPOUNDED

[Verse 1]
The ConEd streetlight flickers on the door of the Kennedy Fried,
I trace the geometry of absence, where the paramedics pried.
Tuesday, 8 PM, the B46 was running late again,
the whole block is a tapestry with one less shade of thread pulled in.
They scrubbed the concrete but the memory's a stubborn dye,
the weave is loose, the pattern's shot, you can't even lie.
I'm cataloging the echo, the shape of the hole you left,
the specific gravity of silence, the physics of the theft.

[Verse 2]
Remember on the pier, Red Hook, the sky was turning bruised?
You were mapping out the stitches on your father's hand-me-down shoes.
Said, "Life's a Kente cloth they weave before you even get a name,
every knot a promise, every color got a claim."
Then you laughed and passed the bottle, the cheap gin burning slick,
and said, "Yo, if I go first, leave one thread for me to pick.
Just a single fiber hanging, so my ghost knows where to start."
Never thought I'd be the one left trying to mend the work of art.

[Verse 3]
Now the studio condenser's cold, it's picking up my breath,
I'm paying for this session with the interest on your death.
This ain't a mask for grieving, it's a procedural report,
an audit of the assets that the Reaper's cut short.
I touch the morgue-view glass, my palm-print fogs the view,
trying to quantify the voltage that they disconnected from you.
It's a curious equation, the subtraction is the proof,
I'm just the lone historian, documenting from the roof.

[Outro]
The 808 is fading out, the piano's gone to black.
I'm still holding that loose thread, bro. And I ain't weaving it back.