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.