I couldn't think of the right words to say, can't say it'll matter that much, anyway.
Francis types.
I can see her through the screen; her words resonate with my soul.
She plays with Tarot cards, whatever the hell those are, she calls for a spirit,
But I'd rather her call for my lips.
She doesn't know it, but they'd look pretty good on hers.
A soft wind pulls her ponytail,
And hormones race through my body.
The screen I look through, there she is on the other end.
But the words get confused,
And the conversation dies.
YOU ARE READING
The Lonely Position of Neutral
PoetryBen's throat cancer has returned. Living a lonely life, he found a woman he loves but finds out she's been unfaithful. Ben starts to think the lonely position of neutral isn't that bad. He writes poems and dialogue narratives. Will Ben survive cance...
