For When I Couldn’t Sleep
If I called you at 4 a.m. you’d pick up first ring. Talk to me in your groggy voice and say, “Tell me everything.” I’d drone on and on about the bike I rode when I was five and pistachios and how my great grandparents died. Don’t worry, no one was old enough to know them enough to cry. I’d hear you smile into the phone and wish that phones were still attached to walls so I could ride sound waves and walk wires to get to you.