Last Seen June

I never text, and I never call,
I just open us up, and I read it all,
past the "good morning"s, past the hearts,
back to the blurry photo where it starts.
Then I close it like I'm doing fine,
but first I check that little line.

It doesn't say where,
it doesn't say who,
it just says you're there,
and that's all I've got of you.

Last seen at a quarter to four,
you were up, and I don't know what for.
But my last seen of you was June,
you kissed my cheek and said "see you soon."
And it's been a hundred nights since then,
I check that line again and again,
'cause it's the closest thing I've got to you,
a little grey time that says you're breathing too.

And one night it just said "online,"
and for a second you were almost mine.
I wrote "hey," and I let it sit,
then I took it back, every bit.

It doesn't say where,
it doesn't say who,
it just says you're there,
and that's all I've got of you.

Last seen at a quarter to four,
you were up, and I don't know what for.
But my last seen of you was June,
you kissed my cheek and said "see you soon."
And it's been a hundred nights since then,
I check that line again and again,
'cause it's the closest thing I've got to you,
a little grey time that says you're breathing too.

And someday it'll just say "long ago,"
or you'll hide it, and I'll never know,
and I'll lose the only thing I still see:
the proof you're awake without me.

Last seen at a quarter to four,
you were up, and I don't know what for.
But my last seen of you was June,
you kissed my cheek and said "see you soon."
So tonight I hid my last seen, too,
so you'd never know I'm still up for you,
and "see you soon" turned into "never,"
and "last seen" turned into "forever."

Last seen...
June.