Sifongery
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Charlie Phoenix
10 hrs agoĀ
Ā
The last letter you never sent
curls at the edges nowā
a fossil of fury inked in trembling hands.
I keep it tucked inside the clock,
where time gnaws at its corners
but cannot digest the words.
Ā
Your voice still lives in the dial tone,
a hollowed-out hum that clings
to the receiverās plastic ear.
I press redial like a bruise,
listening for the gasp
before the automated goodbye.
Ā
The bed is a raft adrift.
I map the empty space with my limbs,
counting the inches where your heat
once pooled like stolen sunlight.
Now? Only the cold arithmetic
of almost and what if.
Ā
I wear your old sweater to the grocery store.
The cashier smilesā"Nice color on you."
I want to scream:
This is not a fashion choice.
This is a burial shroud.
Ā
At midnight, the fridge light confesses
to the leftovers labeled "for later."
The mold blooms blue and patient,
a slow requiem in Tupperware.
Ā
The therapist says "closure"
like itās a door I can simply
paint over.
But Iām still fumbling for the key
in a lock that melted
long ago.
Ā
© Charlie Phoenix
Ā