Fingers hovering like humming birds over the keys.
A thrum of hesitation as each letter is pecked out
from a starling-rush of platitudes.
At first I blamed you.
Taking a moment to look around at the other glowing
heads craned over their screens, I can’t help but think
we are all writing to you.
You understood too well our limitations …
The pierced something-something proprietor behind the counter
reads a dog-eared paperback copy of Beautiful Losers.
… I envied that.
He thumbs his braided silvering soul-patch like a bookmark that holds
in place this precarious moment of reflection.
The words come faster, speckling the liquid screen
with nervous plover tracks, bleeding together,
muddying the shallows of this stream of consciousness.
It is the futility of everything that I cling to now.
The past and present divided
by a rift no keystroke can mend.
A bandaged finger hovers,
poised between delete and send.