She says she wants to see it,
even if Frank Zappa
said it was
not the dirtiest part of the body,
and not at all what I would want to see,
although I'm not her, and she's not here,
and I hold it in the
dark, feeling its warmth,
and it's throbbing,
the ache of it
going deep down into me
as she asks me to transmit,
no way for her to feel the power of it
the way I do,
via pixels and airways over what it will need
to go to jump from
the dark room where i sit
and the lofty space
she waits in to receive it,
she cannot know how
it trembles as I hold it,
how it has a mind of its own,
she is never going to understand its pain
at such a distance,
this potency,
this need, this thing my palms surround
as if something holy,
certainly precious,
an object of desire I
send off
with the push of button.
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