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Poetry Disconnect by Hannah Faoileán

The World Between the Words
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No message icon on my line,
just silent numbers switching time.
No pocket thrum, no programmed song.
My pining heart hangs on.

Last time you rang, I sang with glee –
you told me you would soon be free.
But silence speaks of words unsung,
of promises undone.

I check and wait, say it's ok.
You're busy every other day.
You'll text or call before too long.
But silence says I'm wrong.

I fool myself – it soothes my fears:
You'll text. You'll call. It stalls my tears.
But numbers change and time moves on.
Your silence lasts too long.

I scroll through screens. I find your name.

My finger hovers, waits again.

I press delete. My heart goes numb.

This time I know you've gone.
 
No message icon on my line,
just silent numbers switching time.
No pocket thrum, no programmed song.
My pining heart hangs on.

Last time you rang, I sang with glee –
you told me you would soon be free.
But silence speaks of words unsung,
of promises undone.

I check and wait, say it's ok.
You're busy every other day.
You'll text or call before too long.
But silence says I'm wrong.

I fool myself – it soothes my fears:
You'll text. You'll call. It stalls my tears.
But numbers change and time moves on.
Your silence lasts too long.

I scroll through screens. I find your name.

My finger hovers, waits again.

I press delete. My heart goes numb.

This time I know you've gone.
Shortlisted in a Writing Magazine competition.
 
No message icon on my line,
just silent numbers switching time.
No pocket thrum, no programmed song.
My pining heart hangs on.

Last time you rang, I sang with glee –
you told me you would soon be free.
But silence speaks of words unsung,
of promises undone.

I check and wait, say it's ok.
You're busy every other day.
You'll text or call before too long.
But silence says I'm wrong.

I fool myself – it soothes my fears:
You'll text. You'll call. It stalls my tears.
But numbers change and time moves on.
Your silence lasts too long.

I scroll through screens. I find your name.

My finger hovers, waits again.

I press delete. My heart goes numb.

This time I know you've gone.

Wow.
 
No message icon on my line,
just silent numbers switching time.
No pocket thrum, no programmed song.
My pining heart hangs on.

Last time you rang, I sang with glee –
you told me you would soon be free.
But silence speaks of words unsung,
of promises undone.

I check and wait, say it's ok.
You're busy every other day.
You'll text or call before too long.
But silence says I'm wrong.

I fool myself – it soothes my fears:
You'll text. You'll call. It stalls my tears.
But numbers change and time moves on.
Your silence lasts too long.

I scroll through screens. I find your name.

My finger hovers, waits again.

I press delete. My heart goes numb.

This time I know you've gone.
A story of self-reclamation. The person in the poem did the needful thing. The only thing.
 

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