233-5421

The last
honest bones
holding you

together are

a final number
dialed in
games of
broken telephone,

anonymous
breathing all you
can hear
on
the other end,

pushing numbers
in my
head

hoping for a voice
that says,

“Everything will be
well.”

Because it destroys the
myth
that lets me involuntary
miss you

and your
misinterpretations;

reddening my cheek like open
palms,
alienating me like
unwise psalms.

Once cordial
calm
becomes the storm,

the faltering squall
the falling rains

we traditionally
sought shelter
from

beforehand.

And should you call on
me, you’ll find
only

dial tones haunt
my
conscience;

undaunted
monotony

forever mocking

withheld
conversations.

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