The 51 friends I have on facebook
Is like a little constellation.
It is made of many lanterns that glisten
In the night sky.
And when I look in to my own world
I don’t remember the last time I got a call
Saying someone was thinking of me.
I have facebook to thank for that.
The landline is like a passerine with no beak.
I am the fish in the fishbowl, the bird in the cage.
The flower in the vase. Still I can go outdoors and look up
Into the sky and see a constellation filled with
Little speckles of light. A constellation of little flashy objects
That never fall from their heights.
It seems I’m an astronomer. I know every star
In my constellation so well, what they eat, what movie they saw
What book they read. Yet I don’t know
What type of stardust they carry, the distances between us,
The gravitational pulls nor their nebulas.
And one day we will pass away, and there will be many expressions of sorrow
But not a single eulogy. It seems we only know the material, the matter,
And not the medium. Drift is a little edition of divergence.
And we are all drifters of time. Sadly we too are drift-prone in space.
And drifting is an unconscious as time. The fault lines
That come between terrains. The barbed wire
Fences erected by fate. And we are but fools
Who make starry constellations out of our lives, when we fear heart-contact in the absence of lip-chemistry.
We are only scary felines of our insecurities.
Inside large rooms of our making, stars in a constellation.
Strangers in a little patchwork sky
Estranged of an endearment