Pixel Date
A poem about distanced love
The wifi begins to cooperate,
A thousand pixels are now in sight.
Chunky, thick, not at all HD.
“You’re not looking too sharp tonight.”
He knows just what she means of course,
Though his grin still pierces the screen.
Even when composed of rigid squares,
His face is destined to be seen.
“It’s now six weeks and counting,” he says,
“And I’ve forgotten how to dress.”
His jumper is stained and unthreaded.
“Yeah, you do look quite a mess.”
But she doesn’t really mean it,
Because chaos itself is still art.
A universe much less disordered,
When it’s worn inches above his heart.
It’s bittersweet this lagging reminder,
The delays stuck between each reply.
A connection still forged, but weaker and poor,
As the signals traipse through the sky.
And then he sees her gaze fall,
His world nearly slips out of place.
“I’ve dropped all my adult abilities, you know.
It seems I’m just clearing up some space,”
She blinks into her laptop lens,
Like a tiny star is peering through.
“I’m making room inside me, my love,
For all my missing pieces of you.”
