If You Asked for a Poem

If you asked for a poem,
what would I write about?

My feelings for you,
the way your smile spreads to
emphasize the beauty in your eyes.
The thought of your soft lips
pressed, in passion, to mine.
The feel of wrapping you in my arms,
warmed to the point of melting.

Or my disdain for our separation,
forcing anti-contact and the inability to
be together.
But that would just be
fruitless repetition; raging at
circumstance and wishing for respite.

I would ask for your patience,
for my own,
and for us to work together to make
the best of our time apart.
Invest in speaking with
each other, learning about
one another, and
spending the currency of our mortal selves.

There will be an
even greater return when we can
stand, hand in hand,
and feel the warmth of
our shared smiles.

by Erik Shinker

Dating Apps

The beautiful youth, who cause
lust-infatuation, thoughts of
ravishing disappointment.

The elegant and seasoned, who promise
tender understanding, coupled with
subversive condescension.

They all begin to
runtogether,
molding into an
amalgam of silent responses.

A “conversation” killed makes
ghosts of one of us, and
the transition into this text-afterlife
eases with each disappearance.

Don’t explain yourself to me;
I have gotten along just fine, and
would hate to
have sympathy for you.

by Erik Shinker

Power

With words unspoken,
we communicate through text.
Writing, typing, messaging.

A notification could lift the spirit,
a digital chime causes a
quickening heart and
releases adrenaline in a rush.

The hope of a
connection, a
companion, a
match.

Idle
with attention always
slightly
diverted;
waiting for
another chance at
love, or
lust, or
just something
to pass the time.

Relishing the possibility with
no thought
of reality.
Wishing away boredom with
daylight hallucinations
we would incorrectly call
fantasy.

We allow the
other
end of a chat to
determine our worth, while
the imagination runs
rampant
with the worst scenarios.

She holds the power,
and I both
hate and love
every second of waiting,
as I both
hate and love
myself.

And I check
and there is nothing
and I hate myself a
little more
and I love myself a
little less.

by Erik Shinker