Lock Screen

You were laughing on the ferry with your hair across your mouth,
in my jacket in October, with the summer heading south.
You said, "Delete that, it's my worst one," and you reached for it and missed,
so I made it my lock screen just to win, and you shut me up with a kiss.
Now it's seven months of mornings, and the alarm still goes at eight,
and you're the first thing that I see, before I even see the date.

And every thirty seconds, the screen fades into black,
and every time it does, I touch it, and I bring you back.

I can't even check the time without you,
you're underneath the minutes and every text that's coming through.
Everybody tells me, "Give it time, give it space,"
but the time's on my lock screen, and it's written on your face.
It's six a.m., it's midnight, it's a quarter after two,
and I can't even check the time without you.

I bought a watch in April so I wouldn't have to see,
but I still reach for my pocket, it's just muscle memory.
And Mon saw it light up at the bar and said, "Is that still him?"
I turned it face-down on the table, like I wasn't sure.
It's the only place you smile at me, the only place you stay,
so I wake you up at red lights forty times a day.

And every thirty seconds, the screen fades into black,
and every time it does, I touch it, and I bring you back.

I can't even check the time without you,
you're underneath the minutes and every text that's coming through.
Everybody tells me, "Give it time, give it space,"
but the time's on my lock screen, and it's written on your face.
It's six a.m., it's midnight, it's a quarter after two,
and I can't even check the time without you.

So tonight I opened the photo with no clock in the way,
and I zoomed in on your eyes, the way I never did that day,
and it's there behind the laughing, looking somewhere past my head,
you were leaving me already, you just hadn't said.
Seven months I checked the time, seven months I didn't see,
the hours sat across your eyes and hid it all from me.

It took a second to change you, it took seven months to do,
and I finally saw what all the hours were hiding: you were through.
Everybody told me, "Give it time, give it space,"
but the time was on my lock screen, and the goodbye was on your face.
Now it's black, it's just the numbers, it's a quarter after two,
and for the first time, I can check the time without you.

Quarter after two…
it's just the time.