Something written a year ago

For my dear friends, who once liked, that which is in this poem -

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Characters inscribed, finger after finger
Upon the screens our stares transfixed
So little the space, yet so much transpired
Across and through what is, communication?

It is communication,
But I never know, what, when, where or how
The prefigurations before you, typing now
Except that my act, some form of interruption

Interrupting something I can only presuppose
Reconstitute, reconstruct but not yet
Realise, what will happen next
As eyes lie in anticipation, how your senses react

Absurdity. As the surrealness threatens to absolve
The very conscious certainty of it all. Does it mean
Anything, the physicality of seeing, meeting,
Or is it the insistence of a mind
That seeks to comprehend its own existing

Thoughts too light, polarizing
I look up, and
The sky takes on a starker azure blue.