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.