The Voicemail

I found your old voicemail
on a phone I had to change.
Fifteen little seconds.
Nothing special.
Nothing strange.

Your voice was warm and ordinary,
calling from the store.
You said,
"I'm heading home.
Do you need anything more?"

You didn't know
I'd keep those words for years.

You didn't say goodbye.
You didn't know you had to.
You only asked me
if I needed anything.

Now I'd give anything
to hear that question new.
Fifteen seconds on my phone
is all I have of you.

I played it once.
Then once again.
Just to hear you breathe.

The little pause before my name.
The way you used to speak.

Back then I barely listened.
I knew you'd call again.
I never knew an ordinary day
could suddenly become the end.

If I'd known,
I'd have answered differently.

You didn't say goodbye.
You didn't know you had to.
You only asked me
if I needed anything.

Now I'd give anything
to hear that question new.
Fifteen seconds on my phone
is all I have of you.

You asked,
"Do you need anything?"

I said,
"No, I'm fine."

If you called me now,
I'd have a different answer.

You didn't say goodbye.
You didn't know you had to.
You only asked me
if I needed anything.

Now I'd give anything
for one more call from you.
Fifteen seconds on my phone
and suddenly you're in the room.

You asked,
"Do you need anything?"

Yes.

You.