The room is painted in a single tense:
not the red of warning, but of a story held in pause.
The receiver, a promise carved from plastic,
grows warm against a face the shadows own.
This light does not reveal; it preserves the unseen,
a sanctuary built from glow and humming wire.

My edges fray into the humming dark,
a quiet shedding of the self in pixelated dust.
My form, a signal weakening by degrees,
clings to the coiled cord—a lifeline to a ghost.
It’s not a memory I am losing here,
but the sharp, clear outline of who I am right now.

The line breathes back a ghost of dial tone,
a sound that isn’t sound, but the shape of waiting.
It is the architecture of a void,
patient and perfect in its emptiness.
It asks for nothing, and I give it all my silence,
a shared communion with the space between.

I lend my breath to the hollowed-out space,
hoping to leave a trace on the other side of static.
But words dissolve on contact with the wire,
too fragile for the journey they were meant to make.
This is the ritual, not of connection,
but to prove to the quiet that I am still here.

For connection is not a voice that answers,
but the faith to hold the silence to your ear
and believe that on the other side of static,
someone is holding their silence, too.

The room is painted in a single tense:
not the red of warning, but of a story held in pause.
The receiver, a promise carved from plastic,
grows warm against a face the shadows own.
This light does not reveal; it preserves the unseen,
a sanctuary built from glow and humming wire.

My edges fray into the humming dark,
a quiet shedding of the self in pixelated dust.
My form, a signal weakening by degrees,
clings to the coiled cord—a lifeline to a ghost.
It’s not a memory I am losing here,
but the sharp, clear outline of who I am right now.

The line breathes back a ghost of dial tone,
a sound that isn’t sound, but the shape of waiting.
It is the architecture of a void,
patient and perfect in its emptiness.
It asks for nothing, and I give it all my silence,
a shared communion with the space between.

I lend my breath to the hollowed-out space,
hoping to leave a trace on the other side of static.
But words dissolve on contact with the wire,
too fragile for the journey they were meant to make.
This is the ritual, not of connection,
but to prove to the quiet that I am still here.

For connection is not a voice that answers,
but the faith to hold the silence to your ear
and believe that on the other side of static,
someone is holding their silence, too.