Sugar On Speed Dial

You buzz at 1:30.
The night is “blurry,” you say,
still sending a flurry—thumbs striking sparks off a tired battery.
My porch light taps a little Morse of its own.
Your laugh skids wide.

I watch the screen breathe—
those gray bubbles like fish that won’t break water.
“Be my carry,” you type.
Then: “let’s keep it airy.”
You backspace until the blue goes flat.

Your ringtone has that copper-after-rain taste,
small shock, then the sweetness you swear isn’t there.
I hear you pacing in the punctuation,
open messages like doors half-latched,
your thumb rehearsing a promise it won’t keep.

The cursor jitters—caught insect.
Blue deepens to read, then pales.
The thread pays out, then holds.

Outside, traffic drips under sodium.
A delivery truck breathes in place.
Inside, the screen dims to self-protection.
I touch the name that keeps arriving without arriving,
and slide to silence.

At the door, the porch light answers—dot, dash, dash—
then goes still.
The room steadies.
A breeze touches the curtain—enough.