Missed call

Ah,
the cosmic dance
of modern words—
an intricate ballet,
missed calls,
voicemails,
reality bending,
folding under the weight
of who dials next.

You lift your phone,
that rectangular oracle
of fate,
only to find
the missed call:
a ghostly whisper
of being wanted,
now drifting
in the purgatory
of connection
unfulfilled.

You return the call,
defiance
against the silence,
only to speak
into the void—
beep.
Unbeknownst to you,
they too are casting
their sonnet of longing
into your own
voicemail,
their voice trembling,
futile.

Pause.
Somewhere,
in a parallel world,
a pigeon
with a tiny hat
watches,
nodding solemnly.

Who breaks this
Schrödinger’s loop,
this mutual wait?
Do you send a pigeon
with a note of surrender?
Do you stand beneath
judgmental stars,
waiting for whispers
on the wind?
Etiquette lies dead;
what remains
is the absurd theater
of your ringtone,
blaring
as they call you back,
even as your voicemail
ponders existence.

Ah,
connection!
So close.