Mr. Streak-Maintained, Friendship-Skipped

Lyrics

Eleven-fifty-eight.
Just under the wire.

You send me the corner of your ceiling fan.
I send you the pattern on my duvet.
It's not a conversation.
It’s a handshake to prove we’re both still breathing.
One thousand, two hundred, and forty-seven.
The number sits there, next to your name.
A little monument to nothing at all.

And the little flame icon, it glows so bright.
A tiny, perfect, digital fire.
But it gives no warmth in the blue light.
You keep the streak alive.
But you never call.

My number in your phone has a green call button.
I wonder if your thumb ever hovers there.
Does it remember it can do more than tap a picture?
I heard some people give their passwords to friends.
Just to keep the number from dying when they go on vacation.
Is it even you I'm talking to tonight?
Or just the ghost of your obligation?

And the little flame icon, it glows so bright.
A tiny, perfect, digital fire.
But it gives no warmth in the blue light.
You keep the streak alive.
But you never call.
No, you never call.

What would happen if I let it go dark?
If I just put the phone down, face down on the nightstand?
Would you notice the number was gone?
Or just the empty space where the fire was?
Is this closeness?
This long, silent, unbroken chain?
One thousand, two hundred and forty-seven days of silence.

I send back a picture of the darkened window.
The little flame is safe.
For one more night.
The phone goes dark.