If you were a hyperlink I’d click you so hard. I’d click you every day, over and over, as many times as I possibly could. My roommates would be like “What’s he doing in there?!” because all they’d hear would be click click click click click click click. At night I’d click you last thing before falling asleep and then again first thing in the morning. I’d probably click you a little bit in my sleep too if you were cool with that. I’d click you until my fingers and wrist and entire body were sore. Then I’d click you some more.
If you were a hyperlink, I’d take things slow. I’d smile every time I saw you. I’d romance you with my cursor, turning the arrow into a pointing hand, then back into an arrow again, then hand, arrow, hand, hovering back and forth, teasing you with the anticipation of my touch. I’d make you glow, make you glisten, make you blush. I’d make you ache for my click. Finally I’d press the mouse button and hold it there for a full minute under the weight of my fingertip before releasing it, thereby commanding my web browser to load your URL. You would load so fast.
If you were a hyperlink I’d copy and paste you into the body of an email and send you to my friends and family. This would spark a series of long email chains congratulating me on finding such a wonderful hyperlink. I’d feel happy and proud, and maybe a little jealous, knowing everyone’s checking you out, but then I’d remind myself that that’s OK, because you’re my hyperlink.
If you were a hyperlink I’d reminisce about the day we met. It was innocuous at first. I was just going about my business, and then there you were. You made my heart skip a beat, but I played it cool. I pointed at you, rightclicked you, and opened you in a new tab. Little did I know that clicking you would soon become part of my daily routine. That a day without seeing you would feel incomplete.
If you were a hyperlink, I’d be disappointed you weren’t a real flesh and blood person. Someone to eat and sleep with. Someone to hold hands with at the movies. Someone to go on vacations with somewhere fun, so we could ski down snowy slopes or swim in tropical seas. Someone for me to get down on one knee in front of and propose we grow old together, and hope you’d say yes, and celebrate like crazy if you did. But you won’t, you can’t, and I could never love you. Not like this. Not when you’re just a hyperlink.
Ethan Ryan lives in Brooklyn and on the internet here.