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Type to Compose
His name popped up on your screen, message: hey, you.
Shoulders shrugged, knees brought to chest, you swiveled
your chair to the left. I leaned back. Feet parted, hands on
thighs. You leaned forward. Thumbs on spacebar, pinky
pushing on “Shift,” ring finger tapping exclamation points.
Your typing sounded like a trot, pressing down “Shift,”
less than sign and three. How many hearts must one have?
I swiveled my chair to the right, stared at my screen:
a blank document, blinking cursor, the time: 9:15.
I wouldn’t mind unclipping your key chain from your belt,
or carrying your backpack to the car. Your car, parked beneath
the oak tree, across from the gates. I’ll unlock your door, pop
your trunk, twist on the engine. Brake lights are
popped blood vessels on the tar. No need to call me
when you get home. Your radio will speak to you
on the highway; murmur a bass line, giggle
guitar riffs: a nervous habit. I have nothing
to say that you haven’t already heard.
The time: 9:30. He must be typing.
Your grab your phone and text me:
“I love you.”
Don’t worry; he gives me laryngitis, too.