The Yellow Pages

I needed a number,

a simple thing.

Pulled the drawer out,

where it always used to sing

with the weight of its pages.

But it’s gone.

That thick, yellowed stack,

like a map to everywhere.

No more listing of houses,

no more familiar names,

just empty air.

I remember the smell of ink,

the rustle when you flipped.

Felt like a lifeline,

a promise that you were gripped

by the world.

Now it's just a blank space,

a missing link.

Lost the thread,

without a blink.

Just gone.