You lift the phone for days to hear their voice
which does not know they’re dead. Asks you to speak
and leave a message. “You’ve been dead a week
and love, I miss you.” Always there’s the choice

to do it one more time. Until the whine
of disconnection answers. Then they’re gone
forever. It’s the same for everyone.
Eventually we’re lost. Your voice and mine

gone into silence. Then our bones are dust,
our books are food for worms. So let’s embrace.
You feel my last breaths warm against your face.
Flesh that is not yet pulp not much to trust

better than nothing silence. If we come,
our gasps drown out that empty silent hum.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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