The voice of the morning.

And he would speak, sometimes at night, sometimes at noon, sometimes when the birds were returning home, sometimes when he should have said nothing, always with a sense of urgency radiating every sphere of his life, traversing the circumference of the clocks existence, like a garrulous being. 

She would patiently listen.

But it was the morning, and only the morning when she would softly speak, in her slumber, in that beautiful transient state and slur, slur, slur, like a new born learning to speak, and as she would drag each and every word like a viscous fluid invigorating his auditory atmosphere, like a sick bee humming for love, he would actually discover how life should be lead - slowness was perhaps the key to happiness.

Facebook Love

She changes her profile picture.

My heart skips a beat. Every time.

It certainly belongs to the category of one of those weird events, where technology synchronizes physiology without the help of a Doctor, or so I think.
Thus I philosophize this cyclic occurrence, suspecting mortal desires- or love they say. In a way I intellectualize the situation, forgetting to ‘like’ the picture, thus undoing a little stroke of her happiness.

I slowly stray away from her virtual world, waiting to be forgotten.

She changes her profile picture again.
I deactivate my account.