The Saved Pause

Clearing out the phone,

a digital dust-up.

Then, the folder: 'Saved Voicemails'.

Years of them,

a quiet archive.

I tap yours.

The static hiss,

then your voice,

a little younger,

a little less tired.

You talk about rain,

about a book.

Then, that breath.

That fraction of a second,

just before the words,

"I miss you."

It’s not the words I keep,

not entirely.

It's the space before them,

the gathering up,

the tiny hesitation,

the feeling almost

too much to say.

Still clear, still present,

a ghost on the line.