Ninety-Eight Percent Match

You made us a Blend in the second week we met,
your sad indie songs and my pop you can't forget.
It said we're ninety-eight, a match, the little circle glows,
and every Monday morning it refreshes, like it knows.

Spotify says we're a ninety-eight percent match,
but Spotify doesn't know you left, doesn't know you're not coming back.
It still puts your songs next to mine every Monday at nine,
and I don't have the heart to tell it you're not mine.

Now your side is all slow songs, you're listening at three,
so I know that you're not sleeping, and I know it's not for me.
And then a love song shows up, one I've never heard you play,
and I wonder who's the reason, and I listen anyway.

Spotify says we're a ninety-eight percent match,
but Spotify doesn't know you left, doesn't know you're not coming back.
It still puts your songs next to mine every Monday at nine,
and I don't have the heart to tell it you're not mine.

I could leave the Blend, one tap, and it'd forget us too,
but it's the only place left where I'm still next to you.

Spotify said we were a ninety-eight percent match,
and this Monday it says sixty, and I know who's in that gap.
And it still puts your songs next to mine, but they're not the same,
so I leave the Blend tonight, and I let it lose my name.

Ninety-eight...
it was almost everything.