Rain knocks, little glass footsteps.

The phone rings. I love the guitar riff it begins with.

But most of all I love the name it flashes.

I answer, reluctantly, because I know my whispers stumble.

As much I would if I tried dodging the tears painting my window.

The ones I haven't cried for forty days.

Your voice crackles and echoes, but I can hear you smile.

Thawed macaroni and cheese, coffee perks on the stove.

A night with only your anecdotes to fend off my loneliness.

I hate the way I have to tighten my fingers on the TV remote.

To keep myself from calling you back.