Chat Room, 1999

You are made up of letters.
Your intentions read left to right.
You consist of
A thesaurus and nights
Spent with novels gleaning
Clever phrases from
Already harvested fields.

(Haven’t I heard that
Somewhere before?)

On the phone
Your voice has
The familiarity of a
Newscaster.
I stare at the receiver and see
An eye
Or a finger
Left over from chance meetings
In other rooms.

(Already,
I know you)

Between your lines and
The expectant glow of
A fifteen inch screen
We lie in a bed of words.
Your touches are my own.

(Until your browser crashes.
Or mine)

I’ve waited for you here
For the approximate time it takes
To reboot, wondering
If you’ve gone back
To your dinner
Or changed your name
Into something ridiculous
And unknown.

You leave no fingerprints,
No indentations or dirty sheets
And there is nothing to be said
That we haven’t already said
To someone else
At one time
Or another.

(There is nothing to be done.
We are out of each other’s hands)

Author: Anne Walk

Secret writer turned not so secret writer.

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