Porchlight Threads

You’re a blue bubble sitting on my lockscreen,

I've rewritten this reply about fourteen times.

The cursor is blinking like a warning sign,

and my thumb is shaking right above the

line.

One heavy breath and the text gets sent,

now im trapped in the quiet green-light glow.

The acoustic strings are the only sound left,

waiting on a ghost I used to know.

The three little dots start to dance and fade,

like a radio station losing its spark.

You’re three miles away but it feels like a coast,

just two teenagers drowning in the dark.

And my chest is as tight as the floorboards creak,

i’m sick of the silence,

im dying to speak.

The clock hits midnight,

the wood starts to cold,

but the chords in my hands are beginning to

bold. So im screaming your name through a six-string acoustic,

hoping the frequencies find where you sleep.

Cause loving you young is a beautiful panic,

a promise that is way too expensive to keep.

Yeah, the screen may go black and the signal might break,

but this is a noise a phone cannot make.