Double Tap Heart
On
autopilot
I
take
a late
night
walk
through the circles
of
red
(lights? They’re for exs.)
and
the occasional
green
(makes me feel special)
roads
of
Instastories.
Another
sleepless night
makes
me
wonder how people can write
such insincerity
with
such
conviction and confidence;
I
myself
pee
(in spurts;
What’s hard on the soul is hard on the pole)
down the walls of the toilet bowl
and hesitate to flush
least
I
wake
up the
neighbour
downstairs
(good plumbing makes good neighbours?),
who’s probably drunk
Or
stoned
at 3 am.
I
slide into DMs
only
to be hearted:
in a world full of
swipes,
a double tap
is suitable for friendzoning.
Lub Dub.
Some toxically positive fool
posts
about
sunflowers and Hiroshima.
Someone else
comments on a picture of mine
(a throwback shared to validate myself)
“I just want to be in love with you and then wake up to seeing you lounging on our couch with our dog and a coffee”.
Double tap.
Lub.
Just
don’t
forget
there are dishes piled high
in
the Sink of Sisyphus
in the background
just
like
my pensive stepwell photos
hides
Ticktok starlets, discarded plastic bottles, and graffiti
(Rahul loves Pooja).
Dub
I
think
of
Pokes
on Facebook;
some unreturned
(preventing further poking)
some ignored
(for the same reason).
A buzz and humming and whirring.
Late night
Pokes
bring
Embarrassment
Expectations
or
Malaria.
I
put
my
phone on flight mode
and
away
(to prevent radiations for blowing up my sunflowerless heart).
Lub Dub.
I
am
still
awake.
Are you?
Writing a series of poems based on book titles along with Neville Craig Kumar. This one is based on Andrew Smart’s ‘Autopilot’.
