Call my lost phone

I lost my phone.

The phone that I loved and pressed my fingers against 5 minutes every hour.

The phone I sometimes deprive myself of, fear of 300-page bills.

The phone that woke me up in the morning and the same one that lulled me to sleep.

Gone forever.

Or maybe not. Keeping my fingers crossed until they become one.

Why this tragic poem materialized here, explained:

This morning, I woke up at 5:45 AM at the ring of my phone. I always set my phone to alarm at 5:30 AM and when I wake up before 5:30, I add 15 minutes to the alarm time to lengthen my already disrupted sleep. This system worked for me for a long time already so I’m not asking anybody’s opinion on this habit. Back to the phone, I left home thinking I never brought my phone out of the house.

The whole day I was phone-less. It was all ok to me because it lightened my black pants, significantly decreasing the danger of my pants accidently falling down, exposing the things only the washing machine sees for more than 5 minutes.

When I went back home, I looked for my phone. I was worried because I tried to call it from school and the line said ‘can’t be reached’. I was thinking it committed suicide at the site of my leaving. Pretty confident, I searched our house for the 4 inch black phone. *drumroll. Its not anywhere.

Saint Peter got rid of it.

Waaaaa!!!!!!!!!!! (that means I’m crying)