Care in digits

I never liked sex, but I liked the closeness of it.

The fusion of heat, the melting of skin —

as one being, deformed and intimately performed

in strokes of breath.

As one.

As all.

As none at all.

It terrifies me:

the scars I may fail to heal.

I was never big on texting back.

I’m sorry.

Texts pile up:

"Hey

I miss you.

Wanna hang out?

Let’s grab a drink.

How have you been?

Oui’aime?

I

want

to

see

you..."

Feelings rush.

It’s too much.

Feeling.

Too many.

Words.

What to say?

I…

let it wait,

until

I forget.

Too many words.

Now I feel ashamed.

A bad friend?

Am I?

I won’t forget your birthday.

But I won’t bring a gift.

I’ll text “Happy birthday,”

but I won’t text back

when you thank me.

For what?

Piles of texts,

from weeks, from months ago.

I’m here —

alienated in the wire.

Intimacy is digitalized.

1 0 0 1 0 1

"I miss you."

There’s a sound to it.

I miss

hearing your voice,

listening

to your breath,

feeling the heat

of your skin,

and witnessing

joy spreading on your chin.

Digitalized.

I may be too much of a friend,

and too little of everything else.

Everything is sexualized,

with the digits.

Intimacy is manufactured.

I’m scared.

How do I care —

enough,

but not too much?

Care is measured.

Intensity, too.

You don’t want to be “too much.”

But I never cared.

Let them talk.

I’m scared,

only

of caring too little.

And I’m sorry.

I

miss

you —

just not in digits.

But in flesh.

For I’ve always

cared

too much.