10:30

should I call you?
Or should I keep making up reasons
to leave my antisocial hands full
of their familiar
solitude,
mugs,
pens,
and frozenness,
their terror - refusal to reach out
to friends,
to distractions?

They seem so similar
where I sip and I sit,
transmuting self-pity
into something better,
bigger.

If I called you,
and you didn't answer,
I might hurt,
like I did a few days ago,
when I did a huge, heinous letting go
and wasn't allowed to hear it happen -
like when you would visit, and leave,
and your ghost would stick around -
there's not even a ghost now.
I might hurt,
or worse,
get number.

If I called you
and you did answer,
what then?
10:30 AM,
one coffee in;
paralyzed by your name
having helped build my lips,
I watch it sit still on my contact list,
and pick apart your number.