DEAD LINE

Out here
the road forgets its own name.

Dust hangs in the air
like a thought that never finishes.

A lone payphone stands
beside a rusted pole
and a sun-bleached sign
that promises nothing.

I lift the receiver.

For a moment
I almost believe
someone might answer.

But instead

that sound.

A flat electric emptiness
buzzing against my ear
like a swarm of invisible insects.

No dial tone.
No voice.
Just the cold mechanical hum
of a line
that goes nowhere.

I press the buttons anyway.

Each number falls
into the void
like coins tossed into a well
with no bottom.

The desert wind moves through the wires
overhead.

Somewhere far away
conversations are happening
laughter spilling through living rooms,
phones ringing on kitchen counters,
voices crossing continents.

But here

the wire is broken.

And all I can hear
is the long, indifferent tone
of a world
that isn’t listening.

I hang up slowly.

The silence afterward
is worse.

Because now I know

even the emptiness
has stopped talking to me.