Still Typing

It was a Tuesday in November, five weeks after you'd gone,
I was sleeping in your hoodie with the hallway light still on.
Then my phone lit up the ceiling, and I saw your name, and froze,
'cause right beneath it, it said "typing…", and you know how that goes.

Twenty minutes is a letter, twenty minutes is a lot,
it's long enough for "I was wrong", and "you're the only one I've got".

You typed for twenty minutes, and you never said a word,
the loudest thing you ever told me is the one I never heard.
Your name lit up with "typing" from one-twelve to one-thirty-two,
I held my breath for twenty minutes, like it'd help the words get through.
So I fill it in with "sorry", I fill it in with "come back home",
in my head you're still typing, and I'm still holding up my phone.

I saw you at the pharmacy, the week before Christmas Eve,
you asked about my mother, said you liked my hair, then turned to leave.
And I almost grabbed your sleeve and said, "What was it, that night?"
but you had twenty minutes once, and still you didn't write.

Twenty minutes is a letter, twenty minutes is a lot,
it's long enough for "I was wrong", and "you're the only one I've got".

You typed for twenty minutes, and you never said a word,
the loudest thing you ever told me is the one I never heard.
Your name lit up with "typing" from one-twelve to one-thirty-two,
I held my breath for twenty minutes, like it'd help the words get through.
So I fill it in with "sorry", I fill it in with "come back home",
in my head you're still typing, and I'm still holding up my phone.

Maybe it was "sorry", maybe it was "I'm done",
maybe it was "I still love you", maybe "I've met someone".
So tonight I opened up your name at one-twelve on the dot,
and I typed for twenty minutes every single thing I've got.
And when I read it back, I knew why yours never came through,
you can't press send on goodbye when it still says "I love you".

I typed for twenty minutes, and I never sent a word,
now I know the loudest love is the kind that goes unheard.
My name lit up with "typing" from one-twelve to one-thirty-two,
and I hope you held your breath, the way I always did for you.
I wrote "I'm sorry", and I wrote "I still want you home",
then I erased it, letter by letter, now we're both still typing on our own.

Still typing…
one-thirty-two.