Mine

Static on the line,
Crackling consonants,
Warm and empty.
There is no me here,
Just the hissing void,
And now that I’m lost
Please don’t pick up.

Starved, I detach
Set adrift to white noise.
I see friends about.
Are they mine?
Does it matter?
Do I love anything
More than having it?

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Not Heat Flames Up and Consumes”)