If you read my blog, you'll kind of get what this is. Damn I hate long distance relationships sometimes.
One more night of twitching anticipation,
Telling myself that tonight (for once) I
will not be the one to pick up the phone.
I will hold (thrust) it out to you to do what
I know (hope) we both want with every
sweating inch of our begging (please)
bodies. Because no matter what we talk
about in our whispered midnight (pleadings)
conversations, it always turns to the (dark)
knowledge born of nights and days of skin and
heat, of tangled sheets and (lonely) pleasure.
But as every second passes (screams) by, I
can’t help but bring the line of (touch)
communication closer to my (already) half
bared flesh, so that when it cries (painfully) loud,
I can lift it to my ear and feel the miles of wire reach
out and touch places inside me that were never
meant to be touched with (electric) fingertips. No
matter the skill with which your (skin) voice takes
me to the point where (even) I beg to hear you call
out for me to come (for) with you, in the end my (bloody)
hand hits END and I am left in my own bed (fluids)
alone, burned by the harsh reality that says I can(not)
have you until I am the one who pushes SEND.
