The Open Line

The phone rings

only once.

Like someone remembering

then deciding against it.

-

He lets it hang—

picks it up the second time.

And there she is.

Pressed against the signal

like lungs against a scream.

Sharp,

like ozone.

Like rust.

Like roses drowned in their own water.

-

She unfurls his name like a dare.

The voice isn’t hers anymore.

−·· --- − .----. − / .-.. . .- ...- . / -- . / .... . .-. .

Static.

“If you don’t love me—

don’t make it gentle.”

Click.

-

But the line won’t die.

It keeps on breathing through stitched lips.

His knuckles bleach.

The receiver sweats.

That sentence stays curled in his ear

like an ingrown nail.

-

And maybe she’s gone.

And maybe she never was.

-

The sky keeps bleeding.

The line runs hot.

That sentence she left

still pulses like meat.

Not every wound closes—

some just learn how to speak.

.