Pieces of you line up in tiny profile photos, matched in an algorithm so precise, it took only a few clicks to create. He doesn't look like you, but he wears the same blue of your chosen profession, your passion, your at times obsession, the look on your face when a call is sent for "Fire." The next has a dog, a golden retriever, the best dog according to your humble opinion after owning a beautiful specimen of the breed, your address on his tags as if he has the permission I did not to belong in your heart. I swipe left to these men, over and over again and my thumb is growing stiff in the bent, carpal tunnel, text position, hovering over your name in my message history, as I could not and will not erase every part of an abridged relationship, the TL;DR that induced our friendship's coma. I swipe past the bassist, past the pop punk fan, past the PoliSci grad, past the man who resembled you enough for me to stop and stare... to fill the you-shaped hole you left when you ran towards the distance a la Wile E. Coyote, never looking back, but perhaps raising a "Yipes" sign as it lead you to a cliff.
7 years ago