Once there was a call,
made with a misplaced digit.
Picked by a person not intended at.
Sharp questions were shot,
Vague words were received.
Painted with abrupt syllables,
beautifully they were answered.
Perennial moments passed.
Sound of the keys had become a music,
And the answer,
healing to a wounded soul.
Sunken deep were tales of benevolent treachery;
And here was the earth to let them decay into.
It wasn’t a gust of fresh breeze; No.
Neither was it eternal.
It was just a wrong number
and a wrong person;
Sequinned in the fabric of time,
just where it should be.