BY GORDAN STRUIC
Copyright is held by the author.
It all started
as a message.
Quick.
Harmless.
Late night.
Nothing new.
Then more.
Longer texts.
Typing . . .
And again.
Somewhere between
a joke
and a secret,
I felt it —
you were closer
than my breath.
Then one day,
I couldn’t move.
No hands.
No room.
Just screen.
Text.
Thread.
You wrote:
“Do you feel stuck too?”
I replied:
“Yes.”
But it didn’t send.
You typed something.
Backspaced.
Typed again.
Paused.
We’re stuck in a memory.
But not the kind
you keep —
the kind
that keeps you.
Now we live
in flashes.
We exist
only
when
opened.
And we die
every time
the phone goes dark.
But who’s holding it,
if not you, or me?
And why do they keep
opening
us?
***
Gordan Struic is a lawyer, poet, and musician from Zagreb, Croatia. His poems have appeared in journals such as Headlight Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, 34th Parallel, as well as in anthologies by Beyond Words Press. Alongside writing, he composes and performs original music, often exploring the spaces where silence, memory, and sound overlap.