Old phones

Phones are…unconnected
disentangled
slim–
each ring a breath
through tiny speakers
without echo or depth

I want
(not mobility,
not convenience, but)
to wind my fingers
through the loops of a cord–

Get them so immersed in the coils
I lose seconds
thoughts
heartbeats
in twisting them free

Instead
I spend the time imagining
your own slim phone–
buzzing like mad on a table
in an empty room, or
in your hand–
the screen blinking up
into unresponsive eyes

Pointless

Ignore me then.
The one spark
that’s kept you moving this long
the breath in your blood
that blows through toward something
(anything) like redemption–

Go ahead
shove me away, box me up
as if I don’t exist or never did
as if my tears or this anger
don’t act as icebox and furnace
to your very core:
until you can’t breathe for the empathy.

I get it
you’re a rock, an island
adrift in a sea too deep for your anchor
too embroiled in your old songs
and last ditch efforts
to prove to yourself, to the world
that I’m not here.

So prove it
show me

Show me
that your soul doesn’t beat to my rhythm
that you can pick up and move on
that you’ll return to ignorance
(when the whole world’s screaming)
that you don’t give a damn.

Go on then.
I’m waiting.