The spot near the telephone remains sunken from age, holes stared into the velvet seat. My fingers find familiarity with the frame of the handset and the shiver possessing my arm when they meet the metal, the soundlessness echoing in my chest when it doesn't ring.
And then I ponder if I pine to hear your voice or if I miss the comfort of a presence. I debate dialing your number, ignoring every thread around my throat and spitting out a meaningless sentence.
I wonder if the words were simply stripped away from me, enchanted by a wicked witch. I contemplate learning your lexicon to make the line connect, although I prove to return fruitless every time.
I've speculated, deliberated, and evaluated. I've analyzed every word you spoke, found meaning
between your lines. I've fictioned the feelings behind your tiny gestures, replayed the scene a
thousand times. I've gathered every word in every dictionary from every language from every planet every universe and cosmos rearranged them and calculated the possibilities handpicked each sentence formed the words in my head practiced to myself in the dark convinced myself that the next would arrive engulfed myself in the regret of what could have been and repeated the cycle again again and
again
but I still.
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