Anisha Arvind

simulation sickness

the heat index is hitting triple digits but your hands are ice,
pressing a cold can of generic seltzer against your temple.
it's a rendering-error summer. the sky is the color of a blank browser tab,
bleached out and heavy with the smell of scorched asphalt.
you’re wearing a thrifted graphic tee that reads WISH YOU WERE HERE
in cracked, peeling vinyl, though neither of us is sure where here actually is.
we listen to a podcast on 2x speed just to fill the quiet,
two voices talking about the deep ocean like it's a place that still exists
outside of a nature documentary.
everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, Vonnegut promised,
but he never watched the streetlights blink on all at once,
a sudden grid of artificial amber pinning us to the pavement.
i watch the condensation drip down your wrist, pooling in the crook of your elbow,
and for a second, it feels like a physical law we didn't have to invent.
we stay until the air goes purple, waiting for a glitch in the horizon,
wanting the sky to tear open just enough to show us the wires.