Shared Album

We made it on a road trip, "Us", with a little sun,
four hundred photos later, and the album's never done.
You never left the album, and I never hit "leave",
so tonight a new one popped up, and I forgot to breathe.

You're still adding photos to our shared album, just not of us,
a city I don't know, a sunset, and a girl you trust.
And I could press "unsubscribe", I could let the whole thing go,
but it's the only window left to a life I used to know.

She's wearing your old hoodie, the gray one I wore in May,
you took her picture in it, the same angle, the same way.
And the album still says "Us", in letters small and white,
like a sign on a closed shop that still lights up at night.

You're still adding photos to our shared album, just not of us,
a city I don't know, a sunset, and a girl you trust.
And I could press "unsubscribe", I could let the whole thing go,
but it's the only window left to a life I used to know.

I almost liked a photo, my thumb was on the glass,
just to let you know I'm watching, just to make the moment last.
But a heart from me would be a knock on a door you closed,
so I let it sit there, quiet, and I let you have your roads.

So I added one more photo to our shared album, one of us,
the first one, from the car, before the city and the dust.
Then I pressed "leave album", and I let the whole thing go,
'cause it's your window now, to a life I'll never know.

Us...
with a little sun.