The screen went black at noon

The screen went black at noon.

No more glow, no more maps,

just my own reflection in the glass

looking tired and a little bit lost.

I sat at the table with a scrap of mail

and a pencil I had to sharpen with a knife.

The wood shavings smelled like middle school.

I wrote your name in lead,

scratching out the words one by one

because I can’t remember your handle

or the string of numbers that meant your voice.

By the time I finished the letter,

the side of my hand was silvered,

a smudge of graphite on my skin

that won’t just disappear

when I hit delete.