Cut Off Midstream

The voice was there — then gone —

a break like glass slipping from the edge.

I held the phone like a lung emptied,

waiting for a breath that never came.

Half-lit screen, fingers trembling,

the silence a weight louder than words.

My own voice tangled in the dial tone,

slipping between the crackle of lost lines.

I wanted to say more but found only

that dead pause where meaning unraveled.

Where the call was supposed to catch fire,

I stood staring at a black glass face.

The other side faded, and all I had

was the buzz of a lost connection,

and the slow ache of what never got said,

hanging like cold smoke in the quiet.