The Cut-off Sentence

The screen went black—no warning, no goodbye—

mid-interview, the question hung unfinished,

a weight suspended in the quiet palm.

I stared down at the dead glow, my own breath

caught in the space where words should settle,

a silence thick enough to press my fingers

into the phone like it might speak again.

Answers folded inward, a folded shirt left

unfolded on the floor, cold and plain.

The call dropped — I dropped — and the world spun

around my quiet, cracked thumbs,

waiting, waiting for something

that wouldn’t come back.