'the edge of my desk'

we'd flirted via msg
text
comments
and we'd laughed
and wondered
and she wanted
a call
and late and
drunk
I called
feeling the weight
of voices
without the preferred
precision
of the written

I panicked

my insecure
wrinkles
made me laugh
and stutter
and withdraw

I wish I could say

trust the page
the screen
the column 
and I would

if

I wasn't such
a careful curator
of binary things

if only

the log-in
was all of me

Let your hair down, lady in the tower

Heavy-eyed, typing
too late. All that
inspiration from earlier,
gone. Let's be
straightforward then.
I know 
both of us long for old times.
Freedom, foolishness,
freefalling. Its easy to forget
every sweaty morning spent
trying to forget last night's
anonymous kiss
or the newest shitty
relationship our families
want to forget- now,
while it may be
fragile
at least its real. While I unconsciously
tap my fingers on her neck,
stopping short
her breath
with kinesthetic intimacy,
it all feels like a fairy tale. Remember
though
sometimes, its a cautionary one...