Ghosts in the Machine

There's a maverick tornado
Spinning between the
PC screen and the back wall
Of a dusky room somewhere in
Outer Suburbia,
An old Ikea blind
Raps rhythmically to the wind's
Twist, as Johnny taps
The keyboard with the air
Of an expert specialist in
Cyber navigation, he doesn't
Look down at his hands,
The white light of his screen
Illuminates a face full-flushed
With the blissful imposition of
Romantic entanglement
And natural desire. She is
Materialising in the arrangement
Of extraordinary words
And unexpected phrases, he is
Shakespearean, gazing up to the
Overhanging balcony of
Distant longing, reaching for
Every nuanced word, all within
A single fingers reach but still
A pixelated continent apart. Far off
In another place her countenance
Is reflected the same way, there
Is a fierce wind at her back.