The texting of you is grand, but
it’s been a long time since
Alexander Graham Bell
spilled acid on himself,
and screamed, “Come here
I need you.”

And I want to go back to
such an urgent voice.

Text does not sing, text when it loves
is a mere ephemeral promise. Someone should say,
“Come here my love, I miss you:
your text gives me no perfume of you,
no voice, no opera, and
I miss your passion, and your playful games…

there is no romp in your text, and
I want to have words and song with you in person.

Step away from the text and
meet me now for wild passionate…
you know…”

When I can’t see you I wonder
who has a soul, has a touch, has a heart, has a name

Come meet me
and touch my cheek.

I will give you
much more than an autograph:

I will sign your heart
with my hand and my love

And I will speak
of love with a gentle touch, and

I hope you will sing with me.