No one sounded far away in those days,
our voices traveling through the seemingly
endless wire, across cities and fields,
have crossed by ourselves alone.
We could talk for hours if we were so inclined,
listening, our ears growing hot beneath
the receiver's unlit stars, saying everything
while outwardly not saying much at all.
We could hear the slightest crinkle of fabric
shifting, the restless tapping of a finger
against the soft contours of the bed,
the puff and crackle of a clove cigarette.
We could hear sound before the sound itself.
Our conversations were not dropped.
Sometimes they lingered for years.
Some, perhaps, have yet to be resolved.
But we were never afraid of silence,
never in a hurry to interrupt or explain.
We could hold the line long into the night,
the weight of its body hard against our chests,
the thick, unruly cord forever tangled,
our tired voices unspooling into breath.
"Are you still there?," I can almost hear you
whisper, as we drifted closer into sleep,
each of us in our own separate worlds,
each of us weighted with a separate longing.
We may never find the proper response.
We may never be that close again.
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