My lover and I, we’re super intimate.
I trust him and he trusts me.
I know the password to his phone,
Like I know his face in a crowded a room.

The intricate pattern of a square,
It’s lines firm and final.
The journey of my finger,
Across the coolness of the screen.

I dig my hand inside his coat pocket,
My fingers searching for the feeling that I know so well.
The feeling of cold metal, a chip in the corner,
And a crack in the glass.

I frown as instead my hand comes across a matte phone case,
And the crack in the glass that my finger searches for is instead a smooth screen.
My fingers wrap around the device, still warm from its use,
And my heart stammers as I see that it is not the run down htc that I am holding.

It’s a new phone.

A new and better phone is laying in my hand,
It’s screen blank but its venom lethal.
My fingers scurry to unlock my lover’s iPhone that he had never mentioned,
But there is no square pattern and I am instead faced with numbers that hold no sense.

Why did my lover need a new phone?
Was his old one broken?
Had he grown tired of the cracks or how it’s battery would drain in a matter of minutes?
Or was he simply attracted to a new, shiny phone with it’s bigger screen and fancy case?

Why hadn’t my lover told me about this new phone?
Did he not know the bounds to my love - I could love a different phone,
But I couldn’t love two.
Did he love two phones? Could he not decide which he preferred?
Was this phone a temporary fix or a replacement?

My shaky hands turn the screen of the phone which mocked me so cruelly black,
And I slipped the phone back into it’s hiding place.
My hands don’t then search for the old htc,
Maybe it’s because I might not find it, or maybe it’s because it didn’t matter if I did.