Caravellum

I pretend that I’ve forgotten you but, amidst the snippets of data, there’s an autopsy of the authentic. Autocorrect becomes augur as, with each word I start to type, it knows I’m thinking of you.

It’s August and I’m in Australia now, yet it still catches the glimpses of your auburn hair, its auric glow haloed in the suggestions above my keyboard. I give nothing audible to it but each word auditions for the audience it knows is there; each one bids at the auction for my autumnal heart.

Perhaps I should take it as auspicious, that the aura of your name is so eminently interchangeable. Yet I can’t help but laugh at the audacity of this digital autarch, to author such a fiction in which I could ever replace you.