“In the name of the father, the spirit and the son… go fuck yourself.”
He presses send. He has no regard for my feelings. My emotions are to him as a plaything is for my cat. Flora tosses the little pink mouse in the air and swats at it. When she’s bored she walks away and cleans herself.
“My mind conjures up people. I can delete them too. You, our times, pictures, phone number. its deleted. tomorrow I won’t remember your name.”
He presses send. He won’t remember me. The taste of Pabst Blue Ribbons reminds him. He will remember me two years later and send me artsy pictures of himself in his room at 3am. I am to him as the Internet is to a porn addict.
I press send. He is to me the same- cheap romance novellas bought at gas stations. This is all I know of love. I have pinned him down with words; he hangs from my walls. I cannot help but thank him, my malleable mind at twenty, and now I am your product. Defected, broken product.
“I was drinking pale ale down by the river front I had no shoes or couch just an umbrella and some sunglasses.”
I reply, I always reply, and I don’t know why I do.
“I really like your poem.”
Would he read my poems and think the same? I left poetry and sketches in his bedroom and came back to find them crumbled and beer stained.