The Square Root of Facebook and my Ex

The tips of my hair breach the icy water as I bend over the sink, back throbbing. Toothpaste (zahnpasta) slugs toward the drain. I shuffle back to my cave, clenching my hands around your curly hair fresh out of the shower. My laptop glows, greeting me like a lover.
First picture. Look, it’s us as strangers. It won’t be until months later that I scrape my knees – and my elbows and my calves – falling for you. Each morning is the kinetic energy of a looping rollercoaster, halving me over the toilet with a twisted grin.
Next picture. Look, it’s you immersed with your laptop. The way you concentrate on the screen, eyes wide (as opposed to the familiar squint) – I know your whole being is focused on it. I still wish you could’ve saved some of that energy for me.
Next picture. Look, there’s your family. Arms enveloping. Eyes sparkling. Smiles glittering. So unlike my clump of relatives. The two of us left surround the dining room table set for Thanksgiving, stabbing at our segregated foods – somewhere between the fake turkey and the real turkey is your Sprite and bacon.
Damn it, you’re in my dining room too.
And here’s this Word document, sinking under the adolescence anchor. And I’m done with your photo albums, done with your sapiosexuality, so my brain crawls through the plain white hallways back to senior year. Ten sweaty fingers grasped my Samsung Reality, attempting to spell out my seizing heart.
None of the frantic Forensics class texts sent under the Green River Killer’s watchful gaze from the TV ever mattered. My thoughts jogged laps around themselves – empty calories. Mr. Zoldak wasn’t stupid, he knew my cell phone was propped up against my bag with the lowest light setting just like everyone else’s.
“We’re on lockdown. There was some campus shooting. How appropriate that we’re learning about this shit.” My immaculate anti chat speak messages were bred from your politically correct tongue, while my mind was a slur of “will you just get in my bed already?” and “oh, my mom’s gonna love you”.
You didn’t buzz my Samsung back until late that night.
You gravitated toward my love, but I never saw the red creeping up your cheekbones.
That was the last time I’ll ever look through your tagged photos, I swear.