The Dent

The screen stays black, a heavy weight

pressed hard against my sweating palm.

I’ve memorized the weave of thread

across the mattress, gray and calm.

The charging port is digging in,

a sharp and plastic sort of bite.

It leaves a canyon in my skin,

red and pulsing in the light.

My thumb is hovering near the edge,

searching for a ghost of sound.

But nothing breaks the quiet wedge

of the shadows on the ground.