This poem only available on Lush Stories. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

 And do we wonder what the other is thinking?

Who sits at the window into this glaring world
Of flirtations and cyber smooching
And pictures of fucking couples?

Does it mean more
If the images are black and white,
Subtle hints of intimate moments
Snatched across the seas of pixels
With a lens in moody, shadowed rooms?

Or does it mean more
To bombard a profile with
Sixteen pussies and a bucketful of cum?
Spunky penis here,
Gaping chocolate starfish there?

Who types these words
And says them aloud to the screen
Of that private album?
Who wishes the written caress
Was real,
And the letters we grow were softly breathed
In the ear of the one
For whom our hearts jump high?

Would the heart jump
If the eyes saw the cliff it was falling from?
Would the spirit leap
If the ears heard the panting of sexual hunger?
Would the soul crave
If the skin felt the heat of hot breath in reality?

Here we sit,
Knee to knee,
Forehead to forehead,
Palms to palms
With the wish of our mouths meeting
And the confusion of the unknown
Boiling and bubbling up and over the fantasy
Of what may or may not be ours to grasp.

Does your picture to me mean what I might hope,
Or do you just offer in harmless fun?
Do my words to you bring a gentle smile
Of warmth and longing
And a thrill of "I wish..."?

Or do we slide down this labyrinth
Of electronic love and flirtation,
Never having that pint with our mates,
Never sharing a last cookie with one whom we felt meant more?

And shall I lay my silly heart
On my e-sleeve?
Shall I write you epistles of how
I never saw the depth of this emotion ocean coming?

Do you snigger because I wrote "coming" in my poem,
Or because what I write could be real?
How many tears have I cried for you,
The yearning and hoping that
You might watch for me by night
And write to me by day in your mind,
Aching for the keyboard to have your say
And my reply?
Or does that miraculous wanting
Fade to nothing when I turn off the power at the socket?

Does my tongue kiss the back of my teeth,
Wishing it was petting yours for real?
Do I wriggle the pillows closer as I read
Your last messages in my midnight bed
And wait for my own warmth to
Give me a whisper of your longed-for presence beside me?

Do I wish you did the same
When I sent you the hug smiley?
Is it a game, to make you love me
As deeply as I can,
To make you wish you could hold me for real?
Is it only a game if you really do,
Or consigned to a game if you really don't?

Are my fingers yours
As they slide into my hot hole?
Is it you who smears
My own liquid lust over my lips
And sucks it hard from my fingers?

Is it really my tongue-tip
That feathers up the base of your hard, throbbing shaft,
And my little fist that
Takes your width
And pumps it fast and tight?

That breeze on our necks...
Is it the desire we feel
That stretches across the miles and minutes and hours
To let each other know we fit together
In this pixel world
As well as this earthy realm?

Will we speak to each other
With fucking in our mouths
And selfishness in our hearts,
Or speak with intimacy
And feel with passion?
Or shall we mix them all
And grow this flirtation to a bed of sunflowers?

Do we fear the reality
And crave the fantasy,
Knowing none of these questions make sense
Or reason?

Or do we sit at the window into this glaring world
Of flirtations and cyber smooching
And pictures of fucking couples
And have a quick wank
After we pass the time of internet with each other
Just because we're there?

How do you feel about me?
And do you wish to know how I feel about you?

Let us continue with our contemporary choreography,
Until the principle dancer leaps forward
With their un-sent e-mails clutched
In their sweaty palm,
And declares it all ends at dress rehearsal,
Or that the houselights are up and
The First Night begins.

Who shall go first?
You or me?

This poem only available on Lush Stories. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.