Internet Love

By PRIYANKA VORUGANTI

 

Isn’t it bizarre how weird everything is?
I’m at this point with the world
where I expect to find everything upside-down
when I look out the window.

I met him online, yes, that’s true.
I imagine it went something like this:
Us at some cyber café.
Me serving him coffee.
Our eyes meeting.

Me swimming through cables
and wires and switchboards and blings and blongs and beeps
to reach him.
Our hands held out, our pixels converging.

I love him, but that’s super silly.
I want to be everywhere on his phone, his face,
his body.

Sheila Heti wrote about this man once, Israel was his name.
(I think)
She wrote a chapter talking about living her life
as if Israel’s cock was inside of her
at all times.

As she washed dishes, bought groceries, drove home.
Just a feeling of being filled. Or held. Or both. Or none.

I feel so full of him everywhere and always.
And yet he’s nowhere and he’s no one and rationally,
none of what we have is real.

Everything I encounter every day is such a mindfuck
and yet this is the simplest thing for me to comprehend.

If I threw my phone out of the window right now
it would fall down down down all the way down
and crack and cry and give out one last
terrible
tragic breath
before passing on.

And I’m not gonna say some dumb shit like,
“Oh I would die with it.”

But I maybe I would.
The part of me that is his would die, I guess.
And that’d be it.