Gravity of Waiting

The phone slips through my fingers—

the thud against the wood,

a heavy silence blooms,

like a thick fog curling around my throat.

I stare at the screen, blank as this moment, where

anxiety festers—each heartbeat ticking like a clock

slowly draping its shadow over me,

the weight pulls me down,

wondering if the missed messages come

in dreams, fluttering like butterflies just beyond reach.

Is my worth measured in words unsent,

or the vibrate of hope swallowed

in the haze of waiting? What gravity pulls,

as the seconds stretch and stretch—

I cradle the device, feel its pulse,

the emptiness echoing,

waiting for someone else to remember my name.