Text
I tend the mobile now
like an injured bird.
We text, text, text
our significant words.
I re-read your first,
your second, your third,
looking for your small xx,
feeling absurd.
The codes we send
arrive with a broken chord.
I try to picture your hands,
their image is blurred.
Nothing my thumbs press
will ever be heard.
Duffy, Carol Ann. Rapture. London: Picador, 2005.
Dinner with Zenzi, Saket, and Stef went better than the social night.
But, mainly, I remember just the texts we were exchanging and exchanging and exchanging throughout.
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