Falling Asleep to Old Voicemails

A cycle of poems «The Night Won’t Let Me Forget You»

"Hey, it’s me. Just checking in…"
That voice still fits inside my chest.
I press play like a sacred hymn -
And let your ghost lull me to rest.

You left it on a Tuesday night,
Said traffic sucked, you’d call again.
But life moved fast and changed its mind,
And “again” never came.

Now every word feels like a thread
Pulling me back to softer days -
When I could wake up with your head
Still warm from saying my name.

Your laugh cuts through the static line,
A crackle where the world once spun.
I close my eyes and cross the time…
Back when your "I love you" wasn’t done.

I know it’s not real. I know it’s just sound,
A recording lost in digital air.
But in this dark, without a ground,
It’s the closest thing to you being there.

I fall asleep to old voicemails,
Worn-out words no one else recalls.
From “Running late” to “Miss you so,”
Each syllable keeps you slow, still, low.
I shouldn’t need this. I should be strong -
But your voice is the only thing that feels like home.

I’ve memorized the pauses now -
The breath before you said, "Be safe."
The way you coughed, the distant cow,
The dog that barked behind your gate.

I saved them all. Deleted none.
Even the ones that made me cry:
"We need to talk when you get home…"
That one I play a thousand times.

Not for the fight. Not for the end.
But ‘cause your voice was soft that day -
Like you already knew, my friend,
We’d lose each other anyway.

I charge my phone before I sleep,
Like batteries keep souls alive.
One day the files will fade too deep…
And I’ll have nothing left to bribe
The silence with.

I fall asleep to old voicemails,
Worn-out words no one else recalls.
From “Running late” to “Miss you so,”
Each syllable keeps you slow, still, low.
I shouldn’t need this. I should be strong -
But your voice is the only thing that feels like home.

Maybe love doesn’t die with goodbye,
Maybe it lives in tones and time.
In echoes trapped beneath the sky
Of a forgotten smartphone chime.

And maybe healing isn’t found
In moving on or letting go -
But in the quiet, sacred ground
Where broken hearts still know:

That even gone, you shaped my dawn.
That even lost, you sing to me.
That though you’re not here - past the lawn,
Beyond the stars, beyond the sea -
You're still the voice that says, "Goodnight."
Every single lonely night.

So I press play. I close my eyes.
The room goes still. The world lets go.
And for three minutes, paradise
Is just a message from long ago.

No future. No regret. No shame.
Just you, still speaking into air…
Falling asleep to old voicemails…
And pretending you’re still there.