Unreachable

The parking garage is darker

than it should be,

the overhead light

flickering on and off

like it's thinking about giving up.

I reach for my phone

to tell my mother I'm running late,

but the screen goes black

mid-dial,

the battery icon already red

before I knew to worry.

1%. 0%.

Just like that.

Now I'm standing

under a light that can't decide

if it wants to work,

next to a concrete pillar

with a dead phone in my hand

like a stone,

like a thing

that used to mean something.

My mother doesn't know I'm late.

My mother is probably checking the clock,

is probably wondering,

is probably that particular kind of angry

that comes from not knowing

where your child is.

And I'm here,

unreachable,

in the dark,

with a phone that means nothing,

that's just weight,

that's just proof

that I'm cut off,

that I can't reach anyone,

that I don't exist

to anyone who's looking for me.