The Sound She Didn't Make

The sound cuts through like it's something I need to know,

flat and empty, a rhythm with nowhere to go.

I hold the phone and listen to it speak,

this tone that means I'm small and weak.

She didn't pick up. She always picks up.

But the phone just rings and rings, then fills my cup

with this sound—this dead, repeating wail

that tells me something has failed.

It's just a tone. It's nothing. It's the sound

of connection broken, of me on the ground

listening to the phone's cold insistence,

its blank and perfect resistance.

I could hang up. I should hang up.

But I stand here with this sound in my cup,

this hollow note that means no one's there,

this ringing that tastes like stale air.