I can’t look at you the way I used to. No more lingering glances where time slowed and the world faded into insignificance. Now, all I have is the flicker of pixels. You, distilled into an image I zoom into with trembling hands. I search for fragments of the person I once knew, hoping to catch a glimpse of the life that danced in your eyes or the warmth that once colored your smile. I trace your lips on the screen, that soft reddish hue, the kind that made my heart skip a beat. Your eyes, a deep brown abyss, the kind that poets spill ink over, the kind that once swallowed me whole with a single gaze. I used to drown in them, willingly, and now, you won't even look at me.
I sit here, alone, staring into this tiny digital world, wishing I could break through the screen—reach past the glass, past the scattered pixels, and touch the real you again. The you I once knew. The you who loved me, craved me like I did you. I want to feel your heartbeat under my palm, to remind you who we were. But all I have is this cold, flat image that can’t capture the way you made me feel. It’s not enough. It will never be enough.
I wish I could touch you, not just the version of you trapped in this digital prison, but the living, breathing you. The you who once held me like I was your world. The you who I could have died for, who I believed would move mountains just for me. But somewhere along the way, the real you got lost. And now, all that’s left are memories—some too faded to grasp, others too painful to relive.
