Compression

The phone tells me the memory is full.

It wants me to purge the blurred photos of trees

and the grainy videos of the ocean's pull,

to make room for more of these small luxuries.

I hover my thumb over the triangle play.

Your voice comes through like it’s trapped in a tin,

just a few seconds of a Tuesday in May

asking me when the new shift would begin.

I hear the wet sound of your intake of breath,

a bit of low static, the click of the end.

I’m deleting the sunsets to stave off a death,

holding onto the one thing the clouds cannot mend.