Zero Percent

I was halfway through typing the word 'sorry,'

a sentence I’ve been building for three years.

I was sitting in the car, feeling the worry

and the cold air stinging in both of my ears.

The little red sliver of the battery bar

blinked once, like a warning, and then it went black.

I stared at the screen in the dark of the car,

knowing there’s no way to take the silence back.

I saw my own face in the dead, glassy square,

a tired reflection with a mouth turned down.

I’m still the guy who is almost quite there,

the king of the ghosts in a quiet part of town.