The gaps in between my name
grew increasingly shorter.
I could hear people in the background
screaming, crying, begging
to any God they knew.
“Not me.”
I could hear the burning tears
that streamed down your cheeks
and the ash that
filled your lungs
A lump formed in my throat
that I just couldn’t swallow.
I held my breath.

You started screaming my name by
the end, on the seventh shout.
The line cuts off.
White noise fills the air
again.

The clock reads 10:26 a.m.
the second hand is on the eleven.
The seventh message is still
playing.
In those five seconds, the
tower I see smoking on TV
stands tall and frozen in time.

10:27 a.m.
The line goes dead.

The tower collapses along with my heart.
You weren’t supposed to be there.
My knees buckle and I
fall to the hardwood floor,
screaming and writhing
like I had been the one
in there,
not you.