HUMMING PHONE LINES
HUMMING PHONE LINES
Your call hums through the wire again,
A pulse I know by heart, each word rehearsed.
I let it ring, unanswered, a stubborn hymn,
Counting the ceiling’s cracks like stars gone cursed.
The plaster splinters in patterns I’ve memorized,
Each fissure a map of days I let slip by.
The birds fled south, their wings a fleeting sigh,
But I’m anchored here, no compass, no sky. It’s 31 and falling, darling, the air grows thin,
The mercury dips, and dreams of you creep in.
I see you in the frost on my windowpane,
Your shadow etched where warmth might’ve been.
Goddamn these wasted hours, piling like dust,
Ringing bells that echo through a house of rust.
If I could bite my tongue, choke the truth I owe,
I’d slip through your door before you’d ever know. Rewind the tape, let the reels spin blind,
While your back is turned, I’ll unravel my mind.
Fold my arms, draw the curtains tight,
Bury the roses beneath the frost’s cold bite.
In the backyard, their petals bleed to gray,
Words I spoke before, I wish they’d fade away.
Before the ache, before the weight, before
The ghosts of what we were knocked on my door. Goddamn this squandered time, a tolling knell,
Each chime a bruise from ringing all the bells.
Half my mind wants to weave you a lie,
Soft as the dusk, to keep the truth from your eyes.
The other half screams to spill it all,
Every jagged secret, every rise, every fall.
But I’m caught, split, a fracture down my core,
Torn between the silence and the truths I abhor. I know better than to linger in this haze,
Wasting breath on dreams of brighter days.
I’m tired of waxing sentimental, of pleading please,
Of kneeling to a ghost who never sees.
Tired of waiting, of pacing this worn-out floor,
Of holding my breath for a knock at the door.
The clock ticks louder, its hands a cruel refrain,
Each second a reminder of what I can’t reclaim. Your call comes again, a stubborn, piercing sound,
As if I don’t know the words you’ve tossed around.
I could answer, let your voice flood the room,
But it’s 31 and falling, and I’m wrapped in gloom.
The wind outside howls, a mirror to my chest,
Where longing and regret refuse to rest.
I’ll sit here counting cracks, let the phone keep its cry,
A pulse I know by heart, each word rehearsed.
I let it ring, unanswered, a stubborn hymn,
Counting the ceiling’s cracks like stars gone cursed.
The plaster splinters in patterns I’ve memorized,
Each fissure a map of days I let slip by.
The birds fled south, their wings a fleeting sigh,
But I’m anchored here, no compass, no sky. It’s 31 and falling, darling, the air grows thin,
The mercury dips, and dreams of you creep in.
I see you in the frost on my windowpane,
Your shadow etched where warmth might’ve been.
Goddamn these wasted hours, piling like dust,
Ringing bells that echo through a house of rust.
If I could bite my tongue, choke the truth I owe,
I’d slip through your door before you’d ever know. Rewind the tape, let the reels spin blind,
While your back is turned, I’ll unravel my mind.
Fold my arms, draw the curtains tight,
Bury the roses beneath the frost’s cold bite.
In the backyard, their petals bleed to gray,
Words I spoke before, I wish they’d fade away.
Before the ache, before the weight, before
The ghosts of what we were knocked on my door. Goddamn this squandered time, a tolling knell,
Each chime a bruise from ringing all the bells.
Half my mind wants to weave you a lie,
Soft as the dusk, to keep the truth from your eyes.
The other half screams to spill it all,
Every jagged secret, every rise, every fall.
But I’m caught, split, a fracture down my core,
Torn between the silence and the truths I abhor. I know better than to linger in this haze,
Wasting breath on dreams of brighter days.
I’m tired of waxing sentimental, of pleading please,
Of kneeling to a ghost who never sees.
Tired of waiting, of pacing this worn-out floor,
Of holding my breath for a knock at the door.
The clock ticks louder, its hands a cruel refrain,
Each second a reminder of what I can’t reclaim. Your call comes again, a stubborn, piercing sound,
As if I don’t know the words you’ve tossed around.
I could answer, let your voice flood the room,
But it’s 31 and falling, and I’m wrapped in gloom.
The wind outside howls, a mirror to my chest,
Where longing and regret refuse to rest.
I’ll sit here counting cracks, let the phone keep its cry,
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