Parth Zadey Poet Free verse

Still Holding the Phone

And you never knew—
how many times I stood on the edge of your name,
typing and erasing,
drafting words that felt too fragile to send.

I wrote the messages,
but never set them free.
My thumb hovered over "call"
like a ghost remembering how to hold the living.

Not because I didn't miss you—
God, I did.
But silence sometimes feels safer
than a voice that trembles.

Some words decay
the moment they're spoken,
like truth bruised by too much air,
like “I miss you” whispered into a hurricane.

Some doors, once closed,
start to feel like graves.
And maybe I was afraid
of finding you on the other side,
happy.
Healed.
Without me.

So I let the distance settle,
like dust on unsaid things.
And the questions—
the aching, bleeding questions—
I let them stay unanswered.

You moved on,
and I stayed—
not in the past,
but in the pause between knowing and letting go.

So no,
I never texted you again.
But that doesn't mean
I never held the phone
like it was your hand.

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