Above everything, you are a phone number.
written across the back of an afterthought,
shakily scribbled, hastily misspelt, clawed,
half-erased, bitten into and breathlessly crushed,
sewn into the broken smiles of struggling souls,
murmured against my left wrist, I wish you’d call home;
Before I could dial your fingertips, and
hear your laugh, and throaty whispers float through the air,
as thick as the pulp of past mistakes that I am caked in,
the rain comes down, in bits and pieces,
wiping out the only evidence of your existence.
