Phone Only

For S.L. 

A lost braiding-into-shudder comes off your words - my reddened eyes rub to wetness - sweat - squeezing & grabs - your scuttled sofa inches across your tenebrous room - mine scrapes to make underlinings/ Our roles - story writing & fine artist - in spoken minutes of type & hatching [by my swift stylus & your staining] So we couple [no apparent contact sitting x-miles asunder - forming a [hollowed] body mould by whisking our word-dipped tongues across a twin heave of breath - 'til we come] & then to morning's reunion in light when my recall sharpens - not soft markings but laid words & artwork heavy enough to leave love's scars