Timezones Suck

I don’t have friends.

I have flickers—names in threads,

voices I chase

while lying in beds

at 3 a.m. with aching eyes,

texting ghosts

beneath dead skies.

Europe? Canada??

WHAT DO YOU MEAN

you’re just now eating dinner

while I’ve wiped my screen

from crying or laughing or maybe both—

then scrolling back

like I took an oath.

I reply six hours late.

Now I’m weird.

The convo’s gone.

The chat’s been cleared.

How do I "haha"

when the joke is dust?

I’ll just... emoji, I guess. I must.

AGH.

I love you all, I swear I do,

but timezone math

is pain plus two.

Do I stay up?

Do I crash?

Do I fake a nap

for one quick chat

just to hear

"gtg, brb, ttyl"?

Cool. Yeah. No. That’s real as hell.

You’re living your lives.

And I?

Am syncing my sadness

to when you're online.

I plan my jokes

like war attacks—

set alarms

for vibes that crack.

I want to voice call. I want to scream.

I want to meme

at a godless beam

of Wi-Fi lagging

half my soul

as the internet plays its cursed role.

Do you know what it’s like

to be awake

when no one’s here

and nothing’s fake

except the smile

you throw in chat

because "I’m good"

is quicker than all that?

You’re all so far.

I’m stuck in place.

We orbit time

like it’s a race.

I scroll, refresh,

repeat. Regret.

I love you.

You don’t know me yet.

Anyway...

AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH