Auto-Renewal

The bank statement arrived with a quiet ping,

a fifteen-dollar leak I forgot to plug.

It’s a ghost of a habit, a persistent thing

that gives my checking account a little tug.

I logged in to cancel and saw the old screen,

the 'Who is watching?' with your name on the right.

It’s a digital grave, a flicker of green

that’s been running for months in the middle of night.

I’m paying for movies I’ll never sit through,

for access to libraries I don't want to see.

It’s a very expensive way to keep holding on to you,

or the person I was when you were with me.