The Blue Bubble

I typed the message out at night,

knowing you would see it,

knowing you wouldn't reply.

I sent it anyway.

The three dots came. Went.

Came again. Stopped.

I watched the nothing

appear and disappear

like a heartbeat

that decided to quit.

There's a particular shame

in continuing when you know better,

in pushing the button

when the button is clearly

a wall.

The blue bubble sits there,

my voice talking to empty air,

and I keep looking at it

like it might change,

like the message might retroactively

unmake itself,

like I might unmake myself.

But I'm still here.

And you're still not answering.

And I'm still the kind of person

who sends messages

to the sound of nothing.