Dead Weight

It sits in my palm, a smooth stone,

this black rectangle, cold and prone.

I pick it up, then put it down,

pace the room, a silent clown.

No buzz, no chime, no light to gleam,

just the dead weight of a half-forgotten dream.

My face stares back, a ghost in glass,

reflecting hours that won't pass.

I scroll through nothing, old mistakes,

my thumb a blur for goodness sakes.

It’s heavy, this waiting, more than the phone,

leaving me stranded, utterly alone.