by Sine Qua Non
my hands are cold. my fingres tap stiffly on the keyboard then it taps the air while waiting for your response. it is as if i am tapping into an energy around me that will bring your answer to me. as if my fingers dancing with the breeze will lessen the wait, will give forth answers with much more meaning than your usual quick quips.
it is painful, this distance and our banter. to not have you near and to be unsure of how you laugh at which joke. to not know how it would all sound like. to not see how your eyes would stare back at me when i talk. only the cursor blinks back at me. it blinks steadily, without feeling.
we toss around our thoughts without too much care, dare to ask the questions we shouldn’t, evade the ones that we know the other wants answered. this is where we meet, our reality in a backlit square. what separates us is not mere distance. it is also the series of mistakes we didn’t know we were making before we could figure out what is the right thing.
this is as far as our fantasy could go: virtual, unmoving, without sound. you will remain behind that screen, tapping your fingers that could not make its way in between mine. you are a craving that will never be satisfied. this sense of comfort will last. but only until we actually truly get through.
can you hear me? do you feel?