No Dropped Signals
Fleeting flakes of conversations speckled in the glow. Words tapping against the glass. Floating. Short strings of thoughts abruptly spit. Press send.
Messages received without a face. Letters etched upon a screen. Content pruned back. Character limits.
Limited character. Restricted. Waves splashing on shores of buried thoughts. No time to dig them out. A communication tsunami. Hand-held. Clipped-on. Ear-buds. Plugged-in. Tuned-in. High-volume. Press delete.
Can you see my face? Can you touch my hand? Can you hear my voice? Can you taste my meaning?
Come here. Sit at my table. Let’s dine together. Drinking our thoughts. Melting words like butter. I want to see your crinkled face, your steady eyes, your careful smile. I want to hear the space between your words. No dropped signals.