Thursday, August 30, 2012

108. Crickets in the Phone

I miss you,
how I miss you.

Even when there is
dead air
I can somehow hear,
echoing in the

scratches, noises,
bouncing within the

I can almost picture you
standing at the other end,
not knowing what to say…

I could sit for hours,
pretending to have a
mute conversation
with nothing but
trapped electrons.
But I hang up;
whether it be telemarketers
or my mother
I will not pick up again
for you.

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One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.

- Emily Dickinson