Bless the Telephone

For when you forget you’re enough

Breathe.
Not the deep kind.
Just enough to remind your body that you’re still here.

There you are again.
Tired from being too much and not enough in the same breath.
Carrying guilt like it’s your birthright.
Worry like it’s your job.
Shame like it’s the only thing that ever fit.

It’s okay.
You don’t have to move yet.
Just listen.

Labi Siffre’s voice slips through the static—
“It’s nice to hear your voice again, I’ve waited all day long…”
Let it reach you.
Not all at once.
Just a little at a time.

Feel how the world slows for a second.
How the song doesn’t ask anything from you.
How it just holds.

That’s what this song does.
It forgives you.
Not for anything specific.
Just for being human.

For every time you said the wrong thing.
For every apology that tasted like regret.
For every promise you broke to yourself.
For every night you scrolled, hoping someone would notice you were slipping.
For every morning you didn’t.

Bless the telephone.
For every call that never came
and every one that did.
For the way it hums between you and someone who still thinks you’re worth picking up for.

I remember once, holding the phone to my ear and not saying a word.
Just listening to the static breathe back at me.
The quiet warmth of the receiver against my skin.
A lamp glowing low on the nightstand.
The hum of distance between us.
That was enough.

You can feel that, can’t you?
The steadiness hiding in small sounds.
The way quiet connection can unclench the chest.

Bless the silence that follows.
That heavy, holy kind.
The one that doesn’t need fixing.
The one that says, you can rest now.

You don’t have to keep proving your worth by surviving every storm alone.
You don’t have to keep punishing yourself for not being lighter, calmer, quicker to heal.
You don’t have to earn gentleness.
You just have to answer when it calls.

So if your mind is racing,
if your body feels like a locked room,
read slower.

You are safe here.
You are not too much.
You are not too late.
You are not falling apart.
You are softening.

You are the ring before someone says hello.
The pause before the voice.
The warmth that hums through cold wire.

So tonight, bless the telephone.
Bless the reaching.
Bless the voice on the other end—
even if it’s your own.

And when you forget again—because you will—
press play.
Let the song remind you:
you are still here.
You are still worth the call.

And if no one calls—
bless yourself anyway.

// Scorpio Veil