i am sending you myself through telephone wires

1. i liked how you looked under the sun, and i loved how you looked under the moon. there are times i wonder if there could’ve been something more- if bold was a word i understood, then, if my heart hadn’t been tangled up in him, in her. you held me one night while i cried myself to sleep and it was the first night in a week that i woke up feeling a little bit better than the day before. chocolates and cookie dough, suntan lotion and quiet confessions, counting cars on greene street, counting stars anywhere. i want you to know that whenever i said you were beautiful, i meant it.

2. i called you for the third time this week, and wasn’t surprised when you didn’t answer. i think i’ve learned not to get my hopes up, with you– not that i’m angry, but babe, you’ve never been consistent with me, and we both know it. there is no other truth. i miss you. i left a message. i tell you i’m thinking about you, i tell you i love you. maybe these aren’t things you want to hear, but you’re never there to tell me to shut up. i am content with this. i am content with this, aren’t i?

3. i left the number and hung up before i could listen to the message, hating the way my voice sounds too high, too unsteady, press pound and rerecord, over and over, like the time before. i left my number, and you haven’t called like you said you would. driving home, my phone in the passenger seat, i glance over like i’m waiting for you. maybe i am waiting for you. maybe i’ve always been, and somehow, you’ve never seen. blind, deaf, and dumb. i was yours. how couldn’t you know? i want to say, you can feel my heart beating all the way across this ocean, why aren’t you calling.

4. you are the sound of the ocean. we’re playing tag with these messages. i’m terrified of your eyes meeting mine. yes, this is about you. don’t be stupid. just tell me what to do. if you want to pretend this never happened, all you have to do is tell me.

5. i have your phone number, seven digits on a screen translate to seven digits in black magic marker in the back of a notebook translate to my finger tracing those seven digits, wondering. i know next to nothing about you. i don’t even know if i want to know more. all i have to do is pick up the phone, and i haven’t. maybe i’m not ready for this, maybe i’m not ready for anything. maybe i’m thinking this over a little too hard. it’s just a phonecall. it isn’t a date. yet.

6. you say you’re afraid of calling too much, of scaring me away. call anyway. i like your voice. i like you. i can’t make any promises, but call. i like your voice. i like you.