Waiting on the line

The phone is heavy, a stone

pressed deep in my palm,

its silence louder than a shout.

I stare at the blank screen,

a black lake where light won’t break,

waiting for a spark that won’t come.

Fingers curl tight, loosen, curl again,

a restless tide beneath the skin,

dreaming of a buzz or ring,

something to shatter the quiet.

The weight pulls down the hope I carry,

a lead anchor tied to empty air,

and I hold it still—

waiting, waiting,

while nothing arrives.