I woke the next morning
Expecting the endless miscalls from your number.
But this was reality.
Not some video game with the option for revival.
No door banging.
No intense, heated discussion with my mother.
Just the empty feeling,
I felt since those few words touched my auricle.
I’m not sure they really
Passed through the auditory tube of my ear,
Or if they’re still lingering
Outside, waiting to be processed, or steered
Into whatever thing
Connects to the space in my brain that fears,
Hurts, and stings
With tears - the way normal people bear
The weight of losing
Human beings that meant something or other.
I just sat, waiting,
For your call, hands balled in my comforter.
Waiting, awkwardly,
For the punchline, so this joke would be over.
I think I’m still waiting,
For that punchline, ten fucking years later.
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