dial tone. | poetry

my dreams are different now
no longer are we
standing under the
yellow magnolia tree
collecting velvety petals
to press in between the pages
of leather bound diary's

no longer does your
spit perfume the crook of my neck
and no longer do your
lips stain my knuckles

now my dreams have changed
i'm busy curled up in the corner
by the window where we shared
our deepest desires

the place where
sunlight burnished your hair
and illuminated your
constellation after constellation
grouping of scattered freckles

now i'm busy
so so busy
clutching onto the
plastic body
of a retro landline

anticipating
yet fearing for your call

all you have to do is dial
and i have to do to save myself
is let you leave your message at the tone.