Pixels blink at me in anticipation as I hesitantly trace my fingers along the edge of the screen. Words expectantly sit impatiently for me to throw them at the audience that seems much larger now. Eyes bear into me as I’m volunteered to present something I didn’t write. Maybe I used my voice wrong, and maybe I steered the pitch in the wrong direction; emphasized the wrong words. Laughs were silent or nonexistent, allowing me to be unaware if they were present. Hands clapped silently without moving, causing me to sink into the other realm. They’re blocked out behind a screen. Television characters don’t know me, and I don’t know them. He looks into the camera and struggles to put together nice words. The spotlight finds someone more deserving and strips me of its warmth. Back where I belong, I forget my existence once more to block out yet another nothing memory. What poem? What pressure? What cowardness? That was just a faint recollection of a dream, if anything at all.

Our shoulders used to touch; connected. They were a second home to me. Now, I apologize when they meet.

I used to be my favorite subject, but now I’m my favorite question.