Lyrics
Something happened on a Tuesday, the particular kind That needs a voice to land on, somewhere it can rest I opened up the phone and scrolled through everyone I know Five hundred names — and put the phone back in my chest I know their dogs, I know their kitchens Know the trips they almost took I've liked their griefs and liked their milestones Pressed my heart inside their book Five hundred friends Whose birthdays I will never miss Five hundred friends And I can't think of one to call for this Not that they're cold Not that they'd refuse to try Just — five hundred friends And we've never met outside the glass I've watched them curate distance into something that looks close Best light, best angle, best and carefully edited coast And I've done the same — I've done the same We're all performing nearness And calling it a home We keep in touch the way that people keep in touch The like, the quiet years Close enough to see the outline Of each other disappearing Five hundred friends Whose birthdays I will never miss Five hundred friends And I can't think of one to call for this Not that they're cold Not that they'd refuse to try Just — five hundred friends And we've never met outside the glass There's a kind of quiet knowing In the people who lean in Who hear the thing beneath the thing Before you've let it in Five hundred friends and counting — I'm just looking for the one Who'd notice if I went quiet For longer than a week Five hundred friends The phone face-down upon the shelf Five hundred friends And Tuesday evening, just myself Not lonely — no That's not exactly what I mean Just — five hundred friends And the Tuesday in between