Constant Zero

The screen, a low blue glow.

Hour two. Maybe three.

The exact weight of silence,

measured in screen-swipes.

Not even the little dots

that mean ‘typing.’ Just the clock,

digital, changing digits

without meaning anything new.

Fridge motor, a low hum,

keeps the quiet company.

The sandwich, half-eaten,

crust drying at the edges.

I turn the phone over,

then back again.

It’s like waiting for rain

in a desert that has forgotten clouds.

This kind of heavy.

This kind of empty.

It could go on forever.