The old transistor radio in the corner

buzzed, hummed, crackled with static.

The orders came in, children reciting numbers.

“Defriend them all – no quarter”

The easiest were the fake ones,

barely protesting unlikes and blocks.

Some old friends from grade school kicked a fuss

“You have the funniest posts – can I subscribe to you?”

Aunt Sally wasn’t hard, at first, until she checked her page,

but she’d been dead for years, so “I thought you loved me”

sounded hollow to us, and we moved forward, down.

Scrolling and clicking.

Our old lovers were awkward – strung along by random friend requests,

hints of interest and the sad knowledge that

we could have been what we are with someone else, with each other,

and all of that.

The hardest ones were the celebrities –

you haven’t lived until you’ve had a Kardasian

posting hate notes to your walls.

Girl cannot spell. And goat is not a vowel.

At some point, he looked in the mirror, caught my eye

gazing at his reflection:

“Are we doing this for them, or for us?”

I knew then, the next step, almost taken, in mid-air.

as I clicked on his lovely face.

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