The Low Battery

The sink is full of gray and soapy sludge,

the kind of mess that’s never going to budge.

I reach to call you, then I stop my hand,

remembering you’re buried in the sand.

We talked about the eggs and what they cost,

the kind of boring hour that just gets lost.

You tried to tell me where the light was kept,

while I just checked the time and almost slept.

Now all I have is a message in the cloud,

a door that’s shutting, breathing not too loud.