Ghosting

The phone is face down on the rug.

I feel the hum, the heavy tug

of people asking where I’ve been.

The blue light pulses on my skin.

I don't want the end, just the quiet part—

to stop the clicking in my heart.

My thumb hangs over the little moon,

wishing the sun would go down soon.

I watch the notifications pile up like snow.

I have no words I want them to know.

I just want to be a shadow in the hall,

not a person they can reach or call.