Not for us do vistas spread, for “pastoral bliss”
take ancient poets, who under skies kiss.

For the internet kids, blinking lights of cities,
blurring out under rain, singing ditties.

We drink our fill (that trope remains), talk til dawn
reminds us to go sleep, to bed? Lead on.

“I won’t stop talking, I swear, I can’t, you’ll have to-“
Stop. Caution to winds, but haven’t a clue.

Is this the new normal? How do I, what? I like
you. That’s all. We do seem rather alike.

An elegy for the awkward. Kisses and qualms.
Have I touched your heart? Or just touched your palms?