Inhale. That good ****.
Exhale. The *******.
Inhale. The good times.
Exhale. The bad times.
Inhale.
Exhale.

We see eachother
Through our screens
And we see nothing at all.
All of us,
Our pixels staged
Like empty vendor stalls.

Substituting eye contact with
Fingertips on
Static.
Everything emotional
Is frozen,
Mathematic.

I am longing inside out
For
Savage,
Revealing
Touch

Warmed not by
Electricity,
But by a  
Carnal
Flush.

And I will rise again.