Forty-Seven Seconds

My phone ran out of room.

That's how I found it—

buried under three years of photographs

I barely remember taking,

your voicemail, 0:47,

still red, still unplayed.

I know what's in it.

Roughly. The way you know

what's in a room

you've stood outside of

long enough.

I replaced most things

from that year. The couch.

The pan with the warped handle.

The habit of answering

when I didn't have to.

The voicemail stayed.

My thumb sat on the screen

longer than forty-seven seconds.

Then I closed the app.

Took a picture of the ceiling.

Got three more weeks of storage.

That's where it is now—

between a blurry shot of a receipt

and a parking sign I never needed.