Love in the age of computers

The poetry of people
crashing into one another,
of language sliding across the surface of chemistry,
the humane 'trap and release' of temporary friction,
the audible sound of connections being made
like the latch of a door
or the bolt action of a .45,
the unexpected clickity-clack when it works,
when the heart skips a beat
then doubles its time to catch up
to the girl on the bicycle,
the combustion of first flame
or the hiss of rain on a dying fire,
It's all different now
as language is detached from flesh
by the cool blue disconnect of the world wide web.

The crackle of current just before the first storm,
the desperate attempt to speak
and then unspeak
the interior of longing,
the rush of want,
the heat of fear,
the necessity of contact
as skin is re-introduced to the old newness of skin,
replaced by a spongy dance
across a plastic alphabet of squares.
No history lesson written in flesh,
no greedy hungry mouth,
no pulling pressing hands,
no journey across the familiar landscape of bodies
sticky with forgiveness.

Only hollow palms
cupping the space
between syllables,
measuring the distance between
(please come) back
and (there's no place like) home.

The poetry of people
crashing into one another
sliding across the surface of chemistry
closing the distance between bodies
is lost in the age of computers
because there's no weight
to words spoken
by apathetic fingers
and delivered in Times New Roman.