Phone in My Pocket

Your absence beeps in my pocket

and my weeping hands still

reaches out for your bidding

— tiringly tireless, without thoroughly thinking.

Not your eyes nor your arms

but the sound in my pocket

keeps me living, believing

that my faith is not in vain forgiving.

Not until I grow deaf or feel

numb, that even your bleeding

of scarlet sounds in my pocket

no longer calls attention to my frozen feeling.

Not when the clock has run out of reasons

and the calendar no longer cares —

don’t wait ‘til I fall in love then out of it

because of the phone I hold in my pocket.

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