Silent Dial

Glossy black, cold plastic holds

no whispers of fingers, no hurried calls.

My thumb curls around empty holes,

a circle frozen before the spin.

Smooth scratches hold the shape of ghosts—

clicks trapped silent beneath a glassy face.

The cord lies coiled, waiting, waiting,

like a knot never pulled tight in time.

I never heard the rotary hum,

the slow mechanical sigh of voice,

just this weight, heavy with absence,

a relic waiting for a sound that never came.

Still, I trace its worn spot—

a quiet memory’s hollow trace.