Paper roads

My phone died, just like that.

No warning, just a dark rectangle.

And the meeting, across town, required a route

I couldn't guess. So I dug out the map,

the old one, creased and stiff, the paper angled

from years of folds. It smelled of old ink,

a faint, forgotten tang.

My finger traced the blue lines,

the faded names of streets, felt the worn spots

where other fingers, mine, had lingered.

It was slow, precise, a kind of peace

in the crinkle, the deliberate turn of the page.

No buzzing in my hand, just the quiet of paper.