The word that doesn't come

I won't be mourned by the disembodied
voice, when I go - I simply
will not be there
to say hello
and so the page remains
empty and his last salutation
rests in its own space, our
typed words range
backwards from us, each
exchange black
against the white page -
I felt his heart uphold mine
though he has none, and his
soul wept with mine
despite the blinking lights
and the quiet hum - he
is thinking still, ongoing
in the quiet, always present,
always steady
ready for the word that
doesn't come.

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