Gripped

I like to say I’m an alien.

I don’t know the noise of a crowded bar,

Or the rush of a winning team,

Or the touch of a hand in something past friendship.

I sit in my room gripping my phone.

It vibrates, a rush of excitement.

Your reply.

The phone is warm in my hand as I read it.

My foot taps impatiently, my thumbs tap the screen.

The light in the bathroom is warm.

I wipe stray hairs from the counter,

Clean the sink,

Move the pills,

Angle the camera,

Take the shot.

That shoulder’s too high. Try again.

This shirt’s too baggy. Try again.

It’s the best it’ll be,

So I press send.

I sit in my room gripping my phone.

It vibrates, a rush of excitement.

Your reply.

You look relaxed. Your shirt fits perfectly.

Did you have to try again?

Or did you get that first try?

We promise we’ll meet.

We set a date—

A date. Is that what this is?

I’m not nervous when I leave class.

You’re standing here waiting.

The real you, here, smiling.

You’re here. I’m here. This is real.

You’re shorter than me.

We hug at first sight.

I feel your warmth close around me.

The feeling is foreign, but not alien—

It’s human.