the detritus of online profiles long left behind
faces you don't recognize,
selfies from an old life.
smoking you denied,
the time you put up a half naked photo
the CIA will see if they google your name.
a tiny dot dot dot that left things in air
the sense of everything in a vortex,
everything swallowed by the maw of net
in the ocean rising above our heads.
the long month you only posted photos of your body
in shapes you named with curse words
or parts of the body 'vulva' and 'vascular anus',
the way your employer realizes you are
one of those creative types.
the long streams of type and font detailing
an abuse you endured,
the way your husband realizes you are
one of those damaged types.
a tiny poem you left years ago in a cradle
of no longer available,
that cries pathetically resurrected with the stroke
of a key.
the boyfriend who remains in over sexualized
posts and twee-ts that rise, damn zombies.
the unbearable tenderness of accounts closed
reminding us what we already know
nothing is ever closed or deleted or unreachable-
not in the human heart,
not in the worldwide web.