Red Bar

The screen flashes: storage full.

There's one file I can't cull—

a voicemail from two years ago,

my name, then static, then hello

turns to goodbye and the click.

I should delete it. Should have picked

it long ago to disappear.

But I play it every year

or every month or every week,

listening for the thing they couldn't speak,

the words that died before they reached my ear,

and I keep it like they're still here,

like I was worth the silence,

like I mattered enough

to make someone unable to speak.