Ping

The green dot lights up
i ping you, you ping back.

The phone beeps.
You've pinged me, I ping back.

Ping.

We get talking.
We find common ground.
We talk more.
Pretty soon, I'm telling you some
Really deep feelings
Revealing some secrets.

But when I reach out
There's emptiness
Nothing, no one

It wasn't a person
It was a profile.

It wasn't a person.
It was a contact number.

I'm lost.
I try to find out where I am.
A voice answers.
Cold, impersonal.
It isn't a person.
It's a recording.
It sends me somewhere
That I don't want to go and
I can't even argue, explain or complain.
It isn't a person, it's a recording.

It's the middle of the night.
I wake suddenly, feeling like I'm sinking
Post traumatic stress disorder.
I'm afraid.

Twenty-four hour helpline. Dial.
"Your call is important to us."
I'm not a person.
I'm just a ping, in queue.