I let the phone ring
and feel guilty, paralyzed, and tired.
I find faces in the mold
on the ceiling tiles.
None of them are happy.
Some would claim
we’re never forced to make excuses.
That our lives are like self cut canyons
and as the rain we can make them any shape
We are not the rain.
We are not the infinite variety
of ice patterns born out of it.
Certain capacities limit us
like invisible chains for crimes
we can’t remember committing,
and if we did it wouldn’t make it any easier.
We are much more like the rock itself,
helpless before the elements and time.
Out of control of so much
unable to see the bigger picture
without distorting it like projections of a map.
The phone stops ringing.
I hear your message out of the scratchy speaker
and think about calling you back.
I throw my fucking phone into the sea.