If pixels on a screen were pen on paper,
if words sent through the ether
were mailed in a letter,
I’d be a paper wife.
I am distant, convenient and much too readily available.
I make few demands, and those I put forth,
while often promised fulfillment,
are always and inevitably ignored.
I don’t want to be the spinster Belle of Amherst,
writing, always writing to her Master.
I’m sick of being a crutch left in the corner
‘til another ankle’s twisted.
But I remain – not even fashioned, as was Blodeuwedd,
from the fragile beauty of flowers – only paper.
No, there is no more pen to paper.
I am pixels.
Disembodied, soundless, remote,
I am the phantom on the periphery
of the plateau of reality.
I am Everyman’s dream – the virtual wife.
And it’s got to stop.
The psychiatrist is on vacation.
The confessional is closed.
The virtual wife is dead, replaced by flesh and blood.
© 2012 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved
On being a virtual emotional resource.