THE CURRENCY OF YOUR VOICE

 

The Currency of Your Voice  

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Quarters clinked into airport payphones,

A gambler’s ritual, coins tumbling down the slot,

Each one a bet against the hum of static—

Like pulling the arm of a slot machine,

Waiting for the reels to align,

For luck to spill its bounty.

And then—your voice,

A soft “hello” crackling through the line,

My jackpot,

A prize worth more than gold,

Ringing clear across the miles.

That sound was victory,

A warm thread stitched through the cold metal,

Pulling me from the chaos of terminals,

The shuffle of strangers,

To the quiet harbor of you.  

I wanted nothing more than that—

The warmth in your reception,

A glow that wrapped around me,

Soft as a blanket against the chill of distance.

It was enough to hear you breathe,

To catch the lilt of your words,

A melody I’d replay in the silence of my nights.

No riches could rival it,

No treasure outshine

The way your voice carried home to me,

A lifeline strung through the ether,

Tethering me to you

When the world felt too wide, too thin.  

Out here, I stand on black-sand beaches,

The Pacific stretching endless before me,

Waves crashing in a rhythm older than us—

Their roar a hymn at sunrise,

The sky bleeding pink and gold,

Salt thick in the air,

A tang that clings to my skin.

My eyes memorize the miles,

Tracing the jagged line where ocean meets shore,

The glitter of light on water,

The gulls wheeling in the dawn’s first blush.

The smell of it—brine and wet earth—

Fills my lungs,

A scent so alive it aches,

And I gather every detail,

Hoarding them like keepsakes,

To spill into words for you.  

I picture you there,

On the other end of that scratched payphone,

Cradling the receiver,

Your breath fogging the line as I speak.

I weave these scenes—

The sand’s gritty sheen underfoot,

The waves’ relentless pull,

The sun igniting the horizon—

Hoping you’ll draw them in your mind,

Sketch them with the ink of imagination,

Vivid enough to bridge the gap.

I want them to carry you here,

To this edge of the world,

When you’re gone,

When the miles stretch taut between us,

A rope I fear might snap.  

Those quarters were my offering,

A toll paid to the gods of connection,

Each one a prayer answered

By the timbre of your hello,

A sound I’d chase through crowded gates,

Past flickering departure boards,

Just to hold for a moment longer.

I’d stand there,

Booth glass smudged with fingerprints,

The cord twisted in my grip,

Telling you of the sea’s restless dance,

The way the breeze tastes of freedom,

The hush of dawn over these shores—

All of it a bridge I build with words,

A lifeline flung across the void,

To pull you close when you’re far.  

And now, alone with these beaches,

The payphone’s echo fading,

I still gather the details—

The way the tide leaves foam like lace,

The cry of a tern slicing the quiet,

The warmth of the sand as the sun climbs.

I store them up,

A treasury of moments,

Hopeful they’ll paint pictures in your head,

Scenes bright enough to summon me,

To summon here—

This wild, salt-kissed place—

When the line goes dead,

When the quarters run dry,

And all I have left

Is the memory of your voice,

My jackpot,

Calling me home