You asked if I remember your voice

You asked if I remember your voice,

but I hear only a ghost caught

in the static hum, your words stretched thin,

a river of sound that slips between fingers.

That voicemail crackles, fading in and out,

a fragile signal in the dark,

tongue tied in distance,

sounds that used to be you but aren’t.

I reach for tones that disappear—

lost, like a phrase remembered wrong,

a voice dimmed to a shadow

that might be mine or might be gone.