The clock ticks
In my head,
This late night ritual
Of waiting for
My phone to buzz,
A text to appear,
A picture of her face
So pretty it’s painful
To look at in the dark,
Not quite pornographic,
Except in my mind,
First the clock tick
Then the busss,
A strange aphrodisiac
That oysters can’t
Rival, coming with
An ache each time
And the unsatisfying
Feeling of the incomplete,
The bus the only
Interaction,
Never touch,
You can’t kiss
A smart phone screen
And expected it
To kiss you back,
All is image,
With or without
Her hat covering up,
The old Randy Newman song
About taking it all off
“but you can
Leave the hat on.”
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