That moment when the
world doesn’t make sense.
When each breath you draw in is a gasp of self-loathe
When clicking aimlessly through F-ed photos
When scrolling down the loudly silent buzz of a T-wat feed
Each slip of a knuckle, each tap of the fingertip
Is testimony to your (incomplete) worth
That girl on a blind date at Café Des Croissant
That woman with the perfect crease in her shoulders
That boy with Proust on the banks of The Isis
That man with a paper published at 24
That, them, they, this, that.
The world looks at you, expectantly
Where is the ‘you’ in that sentence?
What will ‘you’ do for the world
That someone else hasn’t done already?
You wonder and ask.
Does the world even need me?
What is
My role in this quiet madness
Where screams are stifled into blinking dots
Where to cheat is to be cheated
Consume, and be consumed?
That is the way of the world.
Frenzied panic trembles through your fingers
Yet the addiction perseveres
Click through this, Tap through to that.
The neck permanently bows
That digital luminescence
In such times, I think of you.
I think of you and breathe
Remember?
The taste of your thumb
The secret swirly sun on your cheek
Infinite calm?
If this is what they call love,
I’ll have more of it. The
Significance in your insignificance
The jovial jest. The pendulous passion.
The concrete
confidence
That is you and me.
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