We met in the worst possible way,

Two hearts left broken, led astray.

You said, "You know what? Love isn’t real,

So let’s just start to play."

No longer was she the lover girl,

Who believed that love’s a twirl—

A dance, a whirlwind romance

No longer was he the gentleman,

Who buys you flowers, who takes your hand,

Someone who believes love’s something grand

Because they’ve both loved someone before,

Built a home, then closed the door,

Both left crying on the floor

So when they met,

They didn’t believe

That love was something they could give

So they just played—

There’s a spark, “It’ll just fade,” they said

Because they met each other in their worst state,

Not expecting love to find a way.

There’s no substitute for life.

I find myself,
seduced by yearnings.

I’m flourishing here,
contemplating sin.

I’ve nothing to do
when I’ve nothing but time.

I’m reusing solitudes -
they’ve become ragged.

What’s the answer then?
Should I seal my girly heart,
engage in uncaring kisses
like it’s ‘casual friday’ -
connive brief excitements
- just to feel a pulse?

Mary, the daughter of some parental friends, is on her high-school-senior college-tour and my mom (on Face Time) told me their plans called for them to be in New Haven over the weekend.

Mom, “Would you mind taking an hour to give her a campus tour?”
I rolled my eyes saying, “I barely know the place myself.”
She waited silently with obvious, parental patience.
“I’ve got a TON of homework,” I pleaded.
“I’d owe you,” she said, encouragingly.
I sighed, struggling with my new and heavy burden, “ALL right,” I groaned.

Mary and I know each other from hospital events we couldn’t avoid (her dad is an emergency surgeon) but we’ve never hit it off.

I take some pride in being able to talk about anything - from football to politics or movies to fashion but Mary’s one and only interest is guys.

Mary’s one of those girls who HAS to have a boyfriend - like there’s a municipal ordinance requiring one - and just about any guy will do. She didn’t even have to particularly like them but they had to be Instagram pretty.

So any time I’d see her (we didn’t go to the same school) she’d have a Tom or Ed or Frank in tow, filling that boyfriend requirement and due to the high boyfriend turnover rate, she’d constantly and embarrassingly flirt with other potential boyfriends right in front of Mr. Now. It was enough to shame my gender.

A typical Mary conversation:
“Are you dating anyone?” She’d ask.
“No,” I’d admit.
“You’re just shy,” she’d say, “You just need to put yourself out there.”
She was positive and encouraging, even in the face of increased competition.
“I used to be shy,” she revealed. Which I doubted very much.

Anyway, once they (her Mom joined us) were certified vaccinated, we got a student volunteer for a real Yale tour. I love the “Harry Potter” look of old campus. (COVID restrictions limit where visitors can go).

I find I already have a sense of “ownership” here and I secretly hope she ends up somewhere else. I waved as they drove off, wishing her a bucket of instagram smiles.

The end result of talking to someone who has their read receipts on is the nagging feeling that whatever you said was not worthy of a response.

Your message is just one of many unanswered notifications that when added together equal a red bubble on a screen that gets ignored and forgotten.

Regardless of the meaning behind it - you feel ignored and forgotten.

So why do you still try.

Each message you send is like an arrow shot with no ending destination hoping to land near something that resembles some sense of stability before shooter loses their balance.

Each moment between messages drags longer and longer while think, “please turn from delivered to read”

You know they’re just busy.

So you wait a few hours, no response in sight. So, like a fool, you cast out a new arrow, as if you have an endless supply.

And you watch within minutes their name hits the screen, because your existence is remembered. So you quickly respond as to hold their attention that you have been craving all day. But that’s all you are going to get.

Because as much as you want to think you are someone special

You’re just a blip. Nothing more than a name on a screen that just gets swiped away. Just a number in a little red bubble waiting to be remembered.