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the crisp fragrance of apples
wafts in through the gaps
between the murmurs of this
silence, perforated by your fingers
tapping melodies on a tuneless keyboard.
elsewhere the tv blares sitcoms like static.
brother's breathing sandpapers the night.

this is life now. you are running (purposefully it seems)
through invisible cords, like those that used
to bind us, only more technical. i shiver
as i mill in this falsely deepening space, hoping
somewhere we'll meet, wishing you would see
my face in something more than pixels, read
my mind beyond size 12, times new roman.

a hairdryer moans: distress without words;
they splatter on the ground from the rusty showerhead,
evoking no response. there is no percolation.
you lean forward, seeking truth in that digital mirror
you've placed between us. you've made me your
reflection, an illusion behind this imaginary wall.
a metre away, i am trying to reach you
but i don't have your number.