Disconnect

We were finally saying something true

when the line cut through,

went dark,

went silent,

and the moment was gone.

I called you back.

You didn't answer back.

Maybe the phone gave you an out,

maybe you took it.

I called again.

Still nothing.

The words hung suspended

between the tower and the sky,

between what you were saying

and the void that swallowed it dry.

I'll spend the rest of my life

inventing the end of that sentence,

filling the blank

with every worst-case version,

every possibility of what you meant,

what I was about to lose

before the mercy of the dead line.

The phone is in my hand.

The screen is black.

I'm waiting for your call back,

waiting for you to finish,

waiting for the words

the line killed.

But you won't call.

And I won't either.

Because I know now

that some truths

are meant to stay unspoken,

that some moments

are too fragile to complete,

that sometimes

the kindest thing

is being cut off mid-reach,

mid-truth,

mid-speech.