Through virtual windows, I peer and swipe,
A catalogue of men, each prototype.
No vows, no bonds, no legal decree,
Just endless aisles of “What could be.”

Migrating birds, they flit and roam,
No nesting hearts, no solid home.
Loyalty? A fleeting disguise,
Lost in the glare of pixelated skies.

Grindr’s ping, a digital bell,
Announces sales of lust to sell.
Swipe left, swipe right, the game unfolds,
A carousel of hearts on rent, not sold.

In this bazaar of fleeting dreams,
Love is reduced to lustful schemes.
Yet somewhere deep, a voice does cry,
“Am I just shopping, or learning to fly?”