When I can’t reach you
When you don’t attend any of my
calls
When you block my texts
And unfriend me everywhere
I’m left with no other choice
But to use my poor poems
To talk to you
To reach out to you in desperation
And right now
Just to let you know...
My phone number
Which you must have deleted
From your well-chosen contact list
Is written on the inside cover
Of that old edition of Shakespeare’s
Hamlet
Which you carelessly keep at the
corner
Of your untidy table
Among unread books of Foucault and Borges
How about you read me Hamlet tonight?
Or maybe saddest lines of Neruda?
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