Forty-Seven Seconds

0:47 — that's how long you are

on my phone, in the voicemail tab

between a dentist reminder

and a delivery confirmation.

Three seconds of laughter first.

Then your voice, mid-sentence already,

something about a film you saw

or a line someone said at dinner —

I can't make out the details anymore,

they've worn smooth from replaying.

But the laugh. The laugh

is intact. It doesn't know

we haven't spoken in two years.

It doesn't know about the email

I drafted and deleted,

the bar where I saw you

and turned before you turned.

I was clearing storage.

Thirty-seven photos of nothing,

an app I never opened,

and then you — filed between

routine and proof of purchase.

I pressed play four times.

The delete button asked

ARE YOU SURE

in a font that felt personal.

I locked the phone.

Put it facedown on the table.

You're still in there, laughing

at something I no longer remember

being funny.