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The light on the vending machine blinks rheumily—
as if remembering something it regrets.
Above, fluorescents hum like lawsuits, relentless
but impersonal, and the sky, chrome
with pending updates, stalls.
There’s a form for longing, somewhere
inside the cough of the printer; my name misfiled
again beneath “User.”
A pause stretches between swipe and denial—
my card is always just a little
too honest.
We orbit inboxes, paper cups full of passive
aggression, love decanted into bullet points
and sent to drafts. Don’t forget
your password, though everything
you once believed is already archived.
I saw your avatar last night—
it smiled with those eyes
you never had.
Because someone had to
be the algorithm.
—The Clergyman
Category: The Clergyman