I hearts.
I likes like love,
love instead of like
whenever it’s allowed.
I refresh. I feed. I watch
the aortic, the ventricular,
the four chambered all
of it lift like a spark out
from under my thumb.
I feed. I refresh. I block.
I am needy, not a fool.
No one like that has ever
requested the likes of
me. Hashtag duck lips.
Hashtag tropical setting,
living your best bronzed
beach life. Still, I check.
It’s a fact we’re never truly
alone. That love can be
emoji-less, a secret admirer
construction cut from
the most bloodshot paper,
slipped onto your desk
some grey February day
after recess. Oh, my heart.
Oh, scroll on. How, for weeks
after in the halls, on the playground,
I looked for clues. No google.
No metaverse to guide.
Only that programmed language
of kindness. Its everlasting
encryption. God, feed what’s left of me
into the algorithm. Feed what’s left
until this so-called world drowns
beneath the red wave of
its longing.
Gus Peterson lives and writes in Maine. His work is forthcoming with Prairie Schooner, Hole in the Head Review, and locally. He decompresses by hosting a monthly poetry salon at his favourite bread/bookstore. His first book, Male Pattern, was published in 2025 by Finishing Line Press.