fomo

yesterday i climbed mount everest. before i descended

i wrote a book about it, too. new york times bestseller

gleaming gold as i pour my homemade cold brew, honey lavender

in your coffee cup. your finger marks still indent the edges

and as always, i struggle to fill them. unlock my phone, one hand scrolling

through instagram and the other gripping the cup for dear life

as if that won't stop it from growing cold. flip from story to story

imagining a vacation in venice, canals floating lanterns on the water, swan-like

serenity. quiet. i wonder if you're with someone who loves you like that.

the screen buffers before loading. i catch a glitch of my reflection and then

a sunkissed brook, all wildflowers and monarchs, wings fearless and bright.

i wonder how many filters must be working to make the milky jade grass,

the opalline daisies, the marbled cobalt clouds, and ponder which combination

would make my pictures pop. is monotone still relevant? does matte matter?

how many views would i get if i posted right now?

and so it begins: the social media saga. it begins with adobe lightroom

making cheeks redder, eyes shinier, hair darker. take out the white--

--there's too much white, who cares about the snow--and curve it.

finally, the big reveal: trembling, i push share and wait for

the notifications to light up. your coffee sits, long forgotten

and the longing with it, at least for this brief moment in space.

it's a beautiful day outside: the sun settles like an egg yolk in the clouds

and the sky melts into cotton candy haze. i should get some fresh air.

i slip on my running shoes and my phone, benign tumor it is, in my pocket.

after all, what's the world but through a looking glass?