Feed

I recognized the laugh before I read her name—

that open-mouth, head-back thing she had.

Blurred at the edge of the frame. The same

face, older. Someone's arm around her. The yard

looked like a yard in a city I don't know.

Two kids, or one. A Saturday.

I zoomed in on her face and let it go—

scrolled on. Lay there in the dark. Okay,

I thought, and waited for the rest of it:

the pull, the warmth, the small familiar ache

of missing someone. It didn't visit.

Just the room, the dark, the phone face-

down beside me. Not grief. Not even close.

More like a door that never latched, still going.