Just piano up close, and her voice humming into the room before any real words.

Now the inventory starts—fortune, then fame—each line given a little air over that steady piano.

Power gets its own pass, with a small yeah in the breath.

And the game. Still restrained—nothing scolding, just the list landing clean.

Here it turns: physical things, and what people think they prove.

I've been there before—she's not above it. The piano keeps that confession upright.

Life's a bore, full of the superficial—still that same even bed under her.

Chorus. The groove firms up, warmer, without crowding her—piano still the bright floor.

If I ain't got you—got you hangs a second above the ground, then drops back into the pulse.

Diamond rings, everything—she keeps naming the haul while the band stays uncluttered.

And the cut: everything means nothing without that one person.

Second verse. Fountain, forever young—she lets the ceremonial shine a little before refusing it.

Three dozen roses as proof of love. The rhythm stays even; the shading does the work.

Hand me the world on a silver platter—the phrase opens outward.

Then it narrows hard: what good is any of it with no one to share.

No one who truly cares—she lengthens the ache and the arrangement still refuses to break.

Chorus back, denser as pressure more than reprise. Same claim, more weight in the return.

If I ain't got you again—firmer pocket, same plain address.

You, you, you—she stacks the word and leans into it.

Another pass. More force in the runs, backing still clear enough you can hear every edge of the piano.

Last polished landing—everything means nothing if I ain't got you.

There—the frame cracks. Heartbeat sound, then casual talk from the room edge. The vow stays, but ordinary life talks over the afterglow.