Face Time

A Poem by Erin Russell

Instead of traveling the world,

we search Google maps,

confined to the roads marked by cursors

rather than feet.

Each question not answered by thought

but a search bar,

the synapses between nerves

dead:

We are the

spaces between words,

unconnected.

Our eyes are lit

by computer screens

instead of burning stars,

the setting sun.

What does it feel like to spend hours,

fingers and voices entwined

under blankets

instead of scrolling through

the profiles of exes and old flames?