Automatic Gesture

The cool glass edge of the phone,

smooth beneath my thumb.

I trace it, a habit grown

without a thought, numb.

Not even looking at the screen,

just the weight of it, the slick feel.

A comfort, a small, dark sheen

I reach for, something real.

Or real enough. The tenth time now,

in this same hour, maybe more.

My fingers know the curve, somehow,

before my mind knows what it's for.

It's just there. A part of me.

This quiet, constant dependency.