Six, Three, Ten, Some

Six, Three, Ten, Some

When we were young, you called my phone.

I’d sit outside and play with the grass,

Watching cars go by,

Breaths counting minutes,

your voice a steady metronome.

With the evening sun slowly sinking,

slipping gently below the tree line,

with a blazing path of coral and gold,

your voice would guide the stars

in a cyclical game of hide and seek.

Six years ago, I reveled in your ringtone.

When we grew up, you stopped calling.

An unknown number rang your phone,

And you answered unsurely.

I heard anxiety tickling in your tone,

But I felt your heart--like a magnet--being drawn.

At some point, the rhythm trickled off.

Our connection crackled and fizzed,

A wave of radio static and

an explosion of sudden volume,

Before a roaring dial tone lashed out..

Three years ago, I think my number changed.

Maybe when I’m older, I’ll delete your number.

Ten perfect digits hold monument in my phone,

The flaws of each measured out in careful balance,

The futility of each flaw corrected--no, covered--

by the beauty of the character, the glimmer of the pixels.

Surely you’ve deleted mine? Maybe lost it in a flood?

Once, I thought I’d had yours memorized,

but maybe I never did.

I thought you’d had mine memorized,

But maybe you never did.

Ten years from now, I’ll find your number again.

Perhaps we’re both at fault.

Perhaps no one is.

One day, I’ll delete your number,

and I hope you’ll delete mine.

You deserve an uncluttered folder.

Some years from ten, you’ll finally know:

We didn’t work

because “I love you”

has two meanings.