Hands that held the phone

The line hums between us,

a thin thread of words and waiting.

Your hands move quickly,

skin loose but still tethered to work,

wrinkles threading like roads

mapped by years of holding,

folding, fixing.

Water drips from the sink,

a cold counter under your grip.

I listen to your breath,

your fingers tight around the phone,

knots and veins beneath the skin,

holding steady

in the quiet urgency

of things unsaid.