My brain never learned to appreciate the soft lines my eyes fed it
until the day you died.
Now, for hours on end I can sit and miss your distorted finger joints
your blurry wrist bones
the way you said things when we were alone

I've found a good drinking friend in the dial tone
I've found the operator's breath to be quite soothing after the fifth round
and I've found that
if I sit long enough with a phone to my ear
my brain makes it easier to imagine that you exist
and so I sit and discuss good times
trace over red lines
close the blinds and pace til the sun comes up
and sometimes I manage to forget
you're no longer here