How are you. Eyes on boobs and dark places. In the spaces. Where the shirt is supposed to be. And he says hello, to slide his eyes. Up her skirt.
She says hi. Of course she likes the virtual feather tease up her knee. On her thigh. Underneath. Where words might touch, the bare beneath.
Blabber stabbing. Sound massage. How close. Will she let me. How far. Can I feel my way. With my words. Without my touch.
Sink them deep. Gulp to hear. Record repeat. Buried under each time he speaks. Spring and summer, settled in the margarita.
He needs release. She wants to be filled. Ish and ishah, a symmetry per second.
Aftermath. A nothing emptiness. And meaningless ness.
But he craves release. And she longs fulfilled.
But they meet in absence.
She releases herself, unknowingly…
And he is filled.
With too much