I hang up.The dial tone is the only thingthat knows how to stay.
The tone is a guillotine.It drops,severing the cord betweenmy breath and your ear. I hang up
"Hello," you said—or rather, the ghost of you,trapped in a copper wire,looping in a clean, plastic roomwhere no one ever sits. " you said—or rather
How would you like to of this piece—should it feel more melancholic , suspenseful , or perhaps abstract ? the ghost of you
You invite me to speakto the air, to the dust,to a black box waitingto swallow my vowelsand turn them into data.