NaPoWriMo 2017, poem 19

When people don’t reply

to email, texts, messages, calls,

I begin to write fiction

in my mind.

They must be busy

They must not care

They must hate me

They must be sick

They must be dead

Do I try again to rouse a response?

If I do, will it wake up

the dearly departed

or am I merely kicking someone

when they are down?

There is never a right answer

to the questions I ask myself

or others.

People were designed for face to face.

But here we are, so many miles

apart so I keep on pinging, nagging,

digging up daisies

until it kills me.

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