Last dial

The dial resists my fingers,

scratched glass fogged by years.

A turn — static spills like cracked glass,

then a song fights through the hiss,

a voice from a distant room.

The warmth of analog hums

beneath my skin, an old radio breathing,

slipping between stations like a ghost.

I turn the knob slow,

each click a small rebellion,

a last grip on something

that slips through fingers

like smoke, like fading light.

The last dial catches

before silence.