The Stone in My Pocket

I sent a message I shouldn't have sent,

or maybe I should have,

I don't know anymore,

and for the last two hours

the phone in my pocket

has felt like a stone,

like something dense and real,

like something that has weight.

I've taken it out five times.

The screen stays blank.

I know this is ridiculous.

I know I'm being watched by my own watching,

that the waiting makes it worse,

that looking at the screen every thirty seconds

will not make the message appear

faster.

But the phone is heavy now.

It wasn't heavy before I sent the message.

I could carry it all day

and forget it was there.

Now I can't forget.

The stone in my pocket is all I can think about.

The stone in my pocket is real.

The stone in my pocket is getting heavier

with each minute that passes,

each minute that the screen stays dark,

each minute that I don't know

if the message was right,

if it was wrong,

if it was even sent.

I took it out again.

The screen is still dark.

The message is still there,

sitting in the sent folder,

sitting in the space between

what I meant to say

and what they might say back,

if they say anything at all.

The phone is a stone now.

I can't put it down.