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Conversations on the telephone.

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Late night conversations and aching bones.
Where does this leave us? Our voices caught in the telephone wire.
My hands tremble as I press buttons together trying to formulate a plan.
Silence crackles between plastic and ear.
"I'm sorry." He whispers and I wonder if he's scared I didn't hear him.
"I'm sorry." He says again, and again, and again. Always sorry for being caught in the transfer of signals.





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