Phone Only

My braiding-to-shuddering swirls
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 writer & finer 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
coupled hollow 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