Heavy Hands

The phone lies cold in my palm,

a brick balanced on a thread of hope.

Thumb hovers—wants to touch, to wake it—

but the screen stays dark.

Each minute stretches thin,

a wire pulled too tight,

a silence louder than any word.

I weigh the weight of nothing,

feel the pulse in the empty screen,

a waiting that presses down like lead.

What could a message say

that would shift this still air?

Maybe it’s just the waiting

that breaks me slow and steady.