Tinder Buttons

I heard somewhere

an idea for the future

how we can find love in this hopeless place.

Conveyer belts of humans moving past each other, eye-level, because with one look you’ll know: it’s true love.

Not there yet, but we’re close.

We tap away at apps, through thumbs straining to show who we are– who we want to be– wondering all the while if anyone will notice or care. Wondering, what is love.

Bubblegum pop candy-sweet philosophy, this love of top 40 radio where good feelings, stars and wings are all the sorts of things you need to know what love means.

There’s hope, though, and I know this when I walk carefully into a new bar, when I wait by my front door, when I peek in the mirror again, when I reapply the lipstick.

My heart beats with bird wings and I see him– so tall I feel my cheeks heat up, so short I start to slouch– so handsome so average so bold so shy.

I met you on a small screen and we laughed together, then, each alone somewhere. We make plans, we set that date: donuts, coffee, tennis or a drink, what do you like to eat?

And you show up. I see you from this beautiful distance and I savor the sight– memorizing you before you’re close enough to ruin it. You might. I could’ve ruined it, too, left you slouching in a button-down and an unsure expression, hit to that infamous male ego.

But I didn’t and you didn’t and that little screen can still let through enough trust to save my sinking hopes, to push my tinder buttons.

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