Ghost in the Autocorrect

In the glowing palm, a silent, fractured stage, 

The screen, a restless mind, turning a digital page. 

My fingers hover, tremble, over glass so cold, 

A story of us, in broken messages, to be told.

Hey. R u okay? 

(Draft: Are we okay? My heart feels like a dropped phone, shattered.) 

Yeah. Fine. Just tired. Long day. 

(Autocorrect, you cruel, knowing beast, you changed 'tired' to 'tied', 

And now my soul feels bound, with nowhere left to hide.)

Thinking of u. 

Miss you. (Sent. A tiny, brave torpedo.) 

Mess you. (Autocorrect's reply, a cruel, ironic sting, 

The truth it speaks, the bitter song it starts to sing.)

We need to talk. 

(The cursor blinks, a nervous, pulsing eye.) 

About us. (Deleted. Too direct. A silent, digital sigh.) 

About things. (Sent. Vague, a shield against the coming storm, 

My thumbs, two anxious spiders, trying to keep my spirit warm.)

I feel like we're drifting. 

No. Driftwood. 

(Autocorrect, you mock me, with your twisted, knowing wit, 

Lost at sea, unmoored, no anchor where to sit.)

Are you there? Hello? (The blue ticks mock, a pair of judging eyes, 

Reading the unread future, beneath indifferent skies.)
I love you. (Typed with desperate, trembling, hopeful might.) 

I live you. 

(Autocorrect's dark magic, blurring day and night. 

Yes, I live this pain, this constant, aching thrum, 

A life consumed by absence, a love that's overcome.)

Remember that night? 

(A memory, a fragile, fading light.) 

The stars. (Unsent. The words feel thin, too weak to hold the weight.) 

The silence. (Sent. A truth more stark, sealed by the hand of fate.)

I don't understand. 

This is hard. (My thumbs, they ache, each letter a small tear, 

Falling on the keyboard, whispering my deepest fear.)

Is there someone else? (The question hangs, a pixelated sword.) 

No. Just… space. (The lie, a digital whisper, silently abhorred.) 

Face. (Autocorrect's cruel jest, a mirror to the soul, 

Reflecting back the truth, making my spirit less than whole.)

I can't do this. 

(A draft, unsent, a scream trapped in the glass.) 

It's over. (Typed, then deleted. Let the moment softly pass.) 

Goodbye. (Typed, then deleted. The final, fatal blow.) 

Goodbuy. (Autocorrect's last insult, as if my love was sold, 

A cheap, discarded bargain, a story growing cold.)

The screen goes dark. 

A black mirror, reflecting only me. 

The unsent drafts, like ghosts, forever wild and free. 

The typos, bitter laughter, at a love that couldn't mend, 

A digital-age heartbreak, until the very end. 

My fingers, now exhausted, lay still upon the frame, 

A monument to silence, whispering your forgotten name.

- Khushi Kaul