Your Name in My Phone

Contacts. Favorites. You.
Two years, and I still can't do it.

Your name in my phone still glows,

There's a voicemail I've been saving
from a Tuesday in the spring —
you're just asking about dinner,
but it's you, saying everything.
Thirty seconds of you breathing,
of you laughing at your own hello;
the phone company keeps warning me
it's the one thing I won't let go.

They upgraded me twice over,
new numbers, new machines —
but I carried you across each one
like contraband in between.

Your name in my phone still glows,
late nights when I scroll alone.
Can't delete a love that stayed —
some calls don't end, they change.

Your name. (still there)

my boys all say it's time;
but they didn't hear you singing
off-key on the other line.
Little sister says it's morbid,
my boys all say it's time;
but they didn't hear you singing
off-key on the other line.
Last month I almost dialed it
just to hear the ringtone play —
then I pressed the saved recording
and let Tuesday have its say.

They upgraded me twice over,
new numbers, new machines —
but I carried you across each one
like contraband in between.

Your name in my phone still glows,
late nights when I scroll alone.
Can't delete a love that stayed —
some calls don't end, they change.

Truth is, one day this phone will die like all the others,
and I'll move you again, careful as a candle.
Grief is just love looking for a signal —
and honey, you still get through.
Five bars. Every time.

Mm. (still saved)
Mm. (still you)
Mm. (still you)

My phone. (still glows)

Your name in my phone still glows,
late nights when I scroll alone.
Can't delete a love that stayed —
some calls don't end, they change.

Thirty seconds of you breathing.
I press save. I press save.

Your name in my phone still glows,

My phone. (still glows)