Words Unfolded

Her voice cracked in the voicemail,

short and clipped,

a warning tucked in a sigh.

I let it sit, unopened,

until the sun dipped low

and spilled across my cracked phone screen.

Now the words stretch thin and sharp,

like dry leaves crushed underfoot,

the weight of silence unraveling

in the half-light of understanding.

She said, "Keep your hands clean,"

not just of dirt, but of the things

that stick under your skin,

the things you wish you'd never touched.

I hear her now, folded tight

in the quiet between sounds,

a caution pressed soft but firm,

waiting for me to unfold it slow.