I breath into the receiver for
an echo, in anticipation of your voice. The expectation is cramming me
full of curdled cream and the belated reflection of my own voice. I am
tired and in my mind I can hardly see this. My pen is a sleepwalker. My
femur bone is threatened by the chair which pokes it mercilessly. I
listen into the phone at the busy signal until it finally goes dead.
I no longer anticipate. The echo is all I need: narcissistic and lacking.
Now I'm excitable, expecting
the echo. I can no longer hold page nor pen in focus. I collapse
against your chest which is actually the air with an aftertaste of the
tardy occurrence of my words. I begin to wonder: is there a right
person for anyone else? Also, I am considering whether or not to hack
the phone to shreds.
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