I believe I may have butt dialed you,
and left a long nothing voicemail.
Did you hear me writing?
The sound of these typer keys
get loud as I hammer away at perches of poems.
I hope you heard me singing Sam Cooke,
as I made cookies in a slight respite from death.
and having all the nostalgic feels
about falling in love?
I hope you heard my heart beating.
I hope you know I am real.