Wireless Tethered

Thirty-four, quiet, and might be kind,
sends music to friends he struggles to find.
Not top forty hits or radio air,
but songs with strange rhythms, raw and rare.

Synths like The Strike, lyrics too deep,
notes that echo from wounds he keeps.
He sends them out like messages in bottles,
hoping for nods, replies full-throttle.

Sounds like he wanna share.
Might be joy he seldom feels.
Or to start reconnection,
that on himself, he cannot restore.

But no one bites, no hearts ignite,
they skim, they skip, they swipe past night.
"It's not my genre," they quietly say,
and the songs fall silent, fade away.

Still, he scrolls endlessly, slowly,
through the names of friends he used to know.
Looking for one who might just hear
the beauty behind what others fear.

His playlist grows; his inbox stays still,
but he sends the songs with stubborn will.
A quiet chorus behind each play:
“This is me; do you hear me anyway?”