Red circle with a crisp white number through
Notification center, sans serif
THIS MIGHT BE HIM and yet, you don’t know if
Left unread, the upper left disrupts blue

It’s not as if you killed someone. Instead
You sit there wondering if the like you’ve spun
Should merit this encircled, glaring “1”
Replay his words as you get into bed

Sleep will come whether or not you know
You tell yourself, but you believe it not
Then simply out of need to nix the spot
A soldier, and afeard? Your face aglow

On your side of the room, the rest is dark
Messages hidden from what they may be
And as the narrow number turns to “3”
With ringing heart you reach for scarlet mark