The Fullness of Nothing

An hour. The phone on the cushion,

dark screen, a black stone.

Waiting for a vibration, some small concession,

but only the hum of the fridge, alone.

The dust motes in the afternoon light,

they move more than I do.

Each tick of the clock, a quiet, heavy bite.

This silence, it's not empty, it's too full.

It presses, a thick, still air.

My own breath, too loud now.

The weight of no news, no message there.

Just this, and the slow, falling brow.