Perhaps he sought me out, but mostly, it is accident.
We talk of love and religion, of ideas and books and songs, of the human condition. We talk of heaven and hell, of g-d and man and of the filthy sacred horror in between. The sublime and the mundane. We type our words and they appear an ocean away.
We have never met. My skin has never touched his, nor his mine.
Only our words. Our words are everything.
And then, silently, he disappears. Into a cloud of terror and culpability. For weeks, perhaps, or months, there is silence. I am the slut, the whore, the mirage, the wet rapacious cunt, the nothing, lilith with a keyboard and I must be erased.
And then, one day, a flashing tab on the computer screen. And the cycle begins again.
Perhaps this time he has turned away for good. And perhaps I should shrug, or even laugh a little, condescendingly. I can't keep track of each fallen robin...
And yet I know a part of me will go on waiting. Waiting for more words on a screen one drizzly afternoon, out of the blue. Hoping that I'm not the only one who's lost in the desert. Hoping that he too knows that being loved is hollow without being understood.
