soyummy #presentationonfleek #topchef
# # #—there are so many hashtags
I could apply to your culinary masterpiece; certainly,
tasting as brilliant as its presentation.
Thank you for sharing.
I would have enjoyed at least one bite.
Where I used to get invites to your table,
now I just get tagged on Instagram.
After the fact.

What an amazing weekend getaway—
992 photos posted to your Facebook wall.
I got carpal-tunnel liking each one.
I used to be in them before
selfie-sticks made my longer arms obsolete.
Do we at least still share a frame
on your bedroom wall?
I’d like that.

Another Twitter update—the second
this hour, right on schedule.
Yet, I'm still left wondering what's on your mind.
I look for my face on Pinterest-
you pin everything you like, these days.
What does it mean that I don’t see it?

What went wrong?
Going “social” was supposed to bring us closer,
yet sharing everything has made you a mystery.
You used to be more than a status update,
but I don't know you
or our status, any more.
It’s not supposed to be complicated.
We used to talk
before phones merged with keyboards,
showing us how taxing conversation.
You used to tell me you loved me
but now I am less than 3.
There is an emoji for every expression
that you no longer show me,
pictures for every word we no longer share.
Yet, with every new text,
I'm forgetting the sound of your voice.

I want to be wrapped in your skin
the way dew covers the morning.
It is sunrise and we are radiant.

I want to be wrapped in your skin
the way paper protects glass in a move.
I am a fragile thing;
keep me from breaking
as we move together.

I want to be wrapped in your skin
the way a blanket keeps bodies warm.
It is so cold, come closer.

I want to be wrapped in your skin
the way a caterpillar longs
for the cocoons embrace.
Make room for me, there
deep in the core of you.
Embrace me as I am now
but watch me emerge
as something greater

A pretty winged thing
and all because of you

Ready to fly away

Does a fish ever see
the glint of the hook before
wrapping its mouth around the worm?
Is it a gnawing in the belly?
A taste for a thrill?
Ignorance of mortality?

Do I have an excuse?
There was no worm on your tongue.

What about a child’s inquisitive fingers
reaching for a stove-top glowing red?
Weren’t they already warned?
We are a stubborn creature but
pain educates--
some lessons  need taught only once.

Except some of us are slow.
My fingers reach out to you again.
How much of me must melt away
before I respect what’s left?