An Ode to Tinder

I
Swipe. Diagnose. Dismiss.
The thumb is a guillotine, and mercy skews the trial.
I log on at 2 a.m. honesty’s coma hour.

II
Every profile is a clinical file.
Hobby: hiking. Translation: escapism.
Quote from Rumi. Prognosis: denial.
Dog photo. Treatment: gentle ghosting.

III
My bio reads:
Doctorate in catastrophes, minor in regret.
Swipe right for the worst best decision of your week.
It filters out optimists and people who spell definitely as definately.

IV
Openers; scalpel cuts.
“Name your favourite failure.”
“Ever tounged an abyss”
Emojis earn my prescribed hush.

V
We match, we chat, we glitch.
She flirts with possibility; I counter with statistics:
divorce rate 32%, love recidivism 78%,
side-effects include hope, bruising, and poetry.

VI
When I like one, sabotage surges.
“Let’s skip dinner and read each other’s medical records.”
Unmatch. Screenshot sealed in my ledger of auto-erasure.

[Unmatch.]

VII
Yet once a month I meet one.
We talk until the coffee acquires orbit.
She laughs at my nihilism, calls it foreplay.
I almost believe her, so I leave first.

VIII
Account deactivated.
Thirty-six hours of abstinence, then the void whispers,
Maybe the next swipe is the control group.
I reinstall, reload, resume.

IX
Toast with tepid latte; the carousel of near-misses.
I will diagnose hearts, I won’t graft;
scribbling post-mortems on napkins,
waiting for one pulse I can’t outwrite.

F.S.F