The Open Line
Don't leave me here
The phone rings
only once.
Like someone remembering
then deciding against it.
-
He lets it hang—
picks it up the second time.
And there she is.
Pressed against the signal
like lungs against a scream.
Sharp,
like ozone.
Like rust.
Like roses drowned in their own water.
-
She unfurls his name like a dare.
The voice isn’t hers anymore.
−·· --- − .----. − / .-.. . .- ...- . / -- . / .... . .-. .
Static.
“If you don’t love me—
don’t make it gentle.”
Click.
-
But the line won’t die.
It keeps on breathing through stitched lips.
His knuckles bleach.
The receiver sweats.
That sentence stays curled in his ear
like an ingrown nail.
-
And maybe she’s gone.
And maybe she never was.
-
The sky keeps bleeding.
The line runs hot.
That sentence she left
still pulses like meat.
Not every wound closes—
some just learn how to speak.
.
About the Creator
Iris Obscura
Are you after "polite?"
Stable?
This is the wrong place.
Looking for the kind of beauty that looks like it crawled out of a fluorescent supermarket at 2:13 am and somehow asked you about meaning.
Read on.
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