Poetry

The Exact Art of Late Night Conversation

Dragging cerebral cursor I edit myself in my own image;
an underexposed reflection of a sleep-deprived visage
in a black screen un-lightened by his feigned indifference;
unnatural lulls, naturalised by electronic incoherence
blaming signal fluctuation for delayed reciprocation 
that we both know is deliberate, a transparent invitation
for me to send a second message, a desperate invocation
and confess myself helplessly responsive. But dedication
to the politics of our determined correspondence
means resisting the appeal of my fading perseverance
and the fear of him sleeping and seeing in the morning
that I sent the last message, and lay sleepless, imploring. 
A buzz
punctuates my dreamy deliberation
and twisting; stiff arm protrudes with eager hesitation
from the duvet-bound bliss of Schrödinger’s cradle
across the terrifying chasm to revered bedside table.
Password blunder, fingers fumble, fatal seconds dwindle
aching neck cranes from pillow for more accurate angle
heavy lid hinges creak wider against blinded reluctance
as frantic pin-tapping finger mines bright screen for
reassurance
Tiny beep. I’m in.
Tiny leap, it’s him.
Infinitely cool. Revived deliberation;
he programs me to type with digital perfection.

Lucy Hamilton