Delivered

The phone was face-down on the nightstand.

I'd put it there at some point after—

after I'd sent the last message

and the thread went still.

I made coffee first.

Stood at the counter

with nothing to do with my hands

but hold the mug.

When I finally picked it up

the screen lit on its own

and there was the preview—

my words, from eleven forty-two,

still sitting in the lock screen

like something I'd meant to get back to.

I didn't open the thread.

I set the phone face-down again,

same spot, same way.

The thumbprint was already there.

The coffee was the right temperature.

The window was the usual gray.

I stood there for a while,

doing neither thing.