Pinned at the Top

Fifty conversations since you left in May,
a boy who sends me flowers, and a girl from work who says "hey".
I answer when I should, I laugh at all the jokes,
but every time I open up, you're up there, like a ghost.

You're still pinned at the top, high above the new,
fifty people talking, and I'm still scrolling up to you.
There's a little gray thumbtack holding up your name,
I could let you sink like everybody else, but it's never the same.
And they're all right there, waiting, and they're all so sweet,
but you're the first thing that I see, and the last thing that I keep.

You haven't texted since the eighteenth, your last word was "okay",
and I read that one "okay" about a hundred times a day.
My friends say, "Just unpin him," like it's easy, like it's small,
but you were my first message in the morning, you were my last call.

You're still pinned at the top, high above the new,
fifty people talking, and I'm still scrolling up to you.
There's a little gray thumbtack holding up your name,
I could let you sink like everybody else, but it's never the same.
And they're all right there, waiting, and they're all so sweet,
but you're the first thing that I see, and the last thing that I keep.

Maybe one day I'll wake up and I won't check,
maybe you'll be just another name that I forget.
So I press and hold, and I watch the little menu rise,
"unpin", and you're falling, and I close my eyes.

You're not pinned at the top, you're down there with the new,
fifty people talking, and I'm not scrolling up to you.
There's no little gray thumbtack holding up your name,
and I let you sink like everybody else, and it's not the same.
And I put the phone down, and I almost feel okay,
and the second that I let you go, your name lit up: "hey".

Hey...
now you're back on top.