NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Five

The phone sits like a letter I can't write,
my silence towards you no doubt in the air
from me to you, a call to make tonight
if I can write this poem and meet you there
in the mutual spaces we share between
our jobs, our families, our private places,
struggling not to be heard or seen.
No one around, still we're keen for traces,
the lives kept in our corners, desks, closets.
We'll interrupt ourselves before they do
with quick goodbyes, content our deposits
keep secure as before the next day's due.
Still I rush this poem to call before
your wondering mind is left to wonder more.