PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

“Who are you?” the screen winked.

Taking the last bite of salmon from my plate, pushing a charbroiled bit of broccoli to the side, I lift the teddy bear blanket from my lap into a teepee over my shoulders,  pulling them forward brrrrrring, shimmering in the snowy sanguinity of the sugar coated valley below my princess palace’s window, as he called my pad..  

Still hoping for the invisible man’s reappearance, I flip over my phone - a text!  (Spark to heart noted) But not from the boy, instead a cryptic query. . . “I was going through my phone and found your number. . . who are you?”  

Immediately I knew, I knew there was someone else, the reason for his disappearance, I could see her, he’s in the shower, she’s in his bed, curious as an alley cat, leans over the rustled sheets, looks to the bathroom to be sure the water’s running and steals the phone from his night table, “He’s been acting weird, maybe a clue in here?” touching the text bubble, sliding her finger down the icy glass, messages slurring past, a careening cascade.  

Or perhaps, like my dream, they’re at a party and he’s at the bar gallantly swinging some drinks over, and she and 3 other gargoyles helicoptering over the android, probably some luscious Latina Lolitas, tits heaving, talons outstretched so as not to damage their lacquered nails, snatching their prey “Let’s see what he's been up to.”   

If I had any wherewithal I would have boomeranged the message, “Who are YOU” I’d ask.  But I.refused to acknowledge the obvious.  Refused to get mad, refused, refused to feel used, “Had I been played?”  made excuses for him to appease my ego.   Dismissed my medulla’s mist.  

Thus, as per usual, turned on myself, yeah, “Who am I?”  . . . and "Who ARE you?"