Screen Time, Real Time

Sunday morning, the notification slides:
"Your weekly report," like it's got nothing to hide.
Daily average, six hours and some,
and I don't have to ask where they're coming from.

Don't need a chart
to show me the truth,
every hour on this phone
is an hour of you.

My phone says I spent six hours with you,
six hours, fourteen minutes, and none of it true,
'cause you weren't in my arms, you weren't in my bed,
just a little square that I opened instead.
Most used, most missed, most of my nights,
six hours of you in a cold blue light,
and it says I'm up thirty percent from last week,
like it's something to be proud of, like I'm not weak.

I set a limit, fifteen minutes a day,
and every night I hit "ignore" anyway,
"one more minute," "ignore for today,"
I've been ignoring my limits since you went away.

Don't need a chart
to show me the truth,
every hour on this phone
is an hour of you.

My phone says I spent six hours with you,
six hours, fourteen minutes, and none of it true,
'cause you weren't in my arms, you weren't in my bed,
just a little square that I opened instead.
Most used, most missed, most of my nights,
six hours of you in a cold blue light,
and it says I'm up thirty percent from last week,
like it's something to be proud of, like I'm not weak.

Give me one hour, not six, just one,
not on a screen, in a room, in the sun,
I'd trade every number, every night, every streak,
for one real minute of your hand on my cheek.

My phone says I spent six hours with you,
six hours, fourteen minutes, and none of it true,
'cause you weren't in my arms, you weren't in my bed,
just a little square that I opened instead.
But this Sunday it says I'm down, way down,
'cause I turned off the phone and I drove across town,
and I'm here at your door, and I'm counting to three,
so open it, baby, spend some real time with me.

Screen time...
real time.