Night Shift

At ten my phone goes amber, like it knows I'm clocking in,
I tie my hair, I clip my badge, the quiet hours begin.
By three the ward is breathing slow, the monitors all green,
and you're the only one awake, the only name on my screen.

You never text me in the day, not once beneath the sun,
but every night at three you swear to God that I'm the one.

You only love me on the night shift,
when the whole world's sleeping and the screen goes gold,
you call me "baby" at a quarter past three,
and by seven you're a different kind of cold.
And I know it's just a setting, I know it's just the light,
but you only look like love to me at night.

I sleep right through your daytime with the curtains taped to black,
I wake at four, and know by now I shouldn't text you back.
You're "not a public person", so you never post a thing,
and I never ask about the pale line where you'd wear a ring.

You never text me in the day, not once beneath the sun,
but every night at three you swear that I'm the only one.

You only love me on the night shift,
when the whole world's sleeping and the screen goes gold,
you call me "baby" at a quarter past three,
and by seven you're a different kind of cold.
And I know it's just a setting, I know it's just the light,
but you only look like love to me at night.

So tonight I turned it off, I let the white come through,
and I read back every "baby" in the cold and honest blue.
Then I found you on her page, a Sunday table set for two:
you were only up at three 'cause she was sleeping next to you.

You only want me on the night shift,
so I let the screen stay white, I let the gold go cold.
Don't text me "baby" at a quarter past three,
roll over and say it to the one you hold.
It was always just a setting, always just the light,
and I was never your love, I was just your night.

Seven a.m.…
I'm clocking out.