Text and Twain

“Lovely Vicki” read the text.

“Im home underdog,” it said.

Mentally, I penciled

“good humor” a wink and nod,

imagining hand-written note.

Not radio wave resemblance,

but silence registered, just for me.

I remember now how quickly you

traced my likeness from shapes you knew.

From three-year pacing, moon by moon

bearing our lantern for hidden desire,

by the slow patterns, I can draw you–

Orbs we cast, light, behind our pillows

Combined perceptions, magic potions.

I find you betray our vivid dreams,

left in my room, which I suffer to guard.

You travel more than is called for.

You fabricate too easily.

You say “love me as I am,”

and that you’ll do the same–

though you fear I am twisted

and maybe you’re in too deep.

(I say strung along and tangled.)

How we met seems unnatural now–

not the contraption of our viviparity,

It didn’t even cramp our fingers,

but a formal application of strangers

isn’t normal for intimacy, as  if for life–

not unguided, not without witness.

(No fuss, no mess, the ad promised.)

Circumstantially as honest

as could be, or as stunned

into silence,  meetings of our minds–

struck seizures sometimes,

from  strobe-flashing hopes

in the other’s eyes,

blinding vistas of virtual truths

of words preconceived

preponderantly believed

fantasies of so-longing dreams,

impossible not to believe,

visceral,

holographic.

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