Unlisted

It’s propping the door of the utility room,

thick with the dust and the scent of the broom.

A brick made of names that nobody calls,

a ghost of a city trapped in these walls.

I flipped to the S and I found where you stayed,

before all the plans that we had started to fade.

The paper is yellow, as thin as a skin,

dissolving away where my thumb’s pressing in.

Seven small digits, a code to your door,

but nobody lives at that house anymore.