Cold Light

The phone glows harsh against my palm,

its light a cold and cutting balm.

Across the room, my silence sprawls,

a shadow thick where envy calls.

I watch the words parade and swell,

her name on lips, my own unwell.

Not pride, but hunger bruised and raw,

my mouth too tight to draw a law.

This bitter ache that won’t confess,

is quiet rage in soft distress.

I cradle it like brittle glass—

reflections cracked, refusing pass.