One Saved

My phone went dark, a low-battery sigh.

I plugged it in, just watched it lie.

Then, the screen woke, and there it was, a trace:

A red '1' clinging to its space.

Voicemail. Yours.

I never click the button, don't open doors

to that sound. Not yet.

It's a small anchor, a thing I've kept.

It sits, a quiet, numbered plea,

a piece of you still held by me.

I know what it says, the way it ends.

A digital burden, my old friend.