you.
The soft blue glow emanating from my phone bounces off pillows and blankets and into my weary eyes.
Eyes that are sore from hours of staring into the bright little screen displaying thoughts and dreams and ideas and connections–whispered secrets conveyed in grey and blue bubbles sprinkled with the occasional emoji.
The digital dreams of reality.
I smile as the ding vibrates my phone.
Another answer to another question. Another smile. Another mini conversation strung to hundreds of other tiny conversations which together make the sum of all our parts.
All our shared parts, that is–digitally altered facts desperately attempting to convey honest, vulnerable authenticity.
Should I share more?
My thumb hovers over the “send” button as I hesitate to say something that might scare away this rare moment of intimacy. My hesitation is created through the digital wall between our authentic conversation. It’s a sifter that allows us the time to ration our thoughts into an orderly, attractive, non-threatening conversation.
I like you.
I like you too.
I like these things we talk about.
I like how you feel about that and how easily you can express yourself in 140 characters.
But I’ve grown tired of it.
I’ve picked you out of the cyber buffet of human sides, appetizers, main courses, and desserts.
It’s you I want.
I’m tired of the food poisoning. I’m tired of the options.
I want to open myself up to you. I want to be deliriously in love. I want to be dismantled in your presence. I want to know all of you.
I want to peel your digital rendering off the white screen clutched between my fingers and mold it into flesh and bone.
May I do that?
Will you show me who you are?
Will you let me see you? The real you. The you you’re trying to offer up so freely, but the you who is lost between endless strands of ones and zeros swarming through space until their find their way into my clammy, anxious hands.
I want to see you. I want to touch you. I want to know you.
May I?
. . .
Call me, you say.
Meet me.
Put down the phone.
December, 2015