When Mario bumps into Goomba and dies,
you hand me the controller, say it’s my turn,
but I prefer to watch.
Like an ASMR video, I’m tracing your every move,
getting as close to you as humanly possible without touching,
so when you do something in the game,
it feels like I’m doing it too.
I’m trying to recreate the feeling I had as a child.
The gentle warmth watching my grandad lose himself
in his attempts to describe the world to me.
It sometimes happens when I’m on the phone with my mobile provider.
To avoid getting stressed about my unpaid bill, I’ll zoom in, listen
to the cadent rhythms of a stranger’s voice, their breath heavier
as they begin to relax on the other side of the line.
I think it’s happening right now, as your fingertips
mash the buttons on the controller, I feel a warm rush,
witnessing the version of you no one else sees but me,
the things you’ll only say when we’re alone together,
totally locked in, and nothing else in the world exists
but this.
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