Wine and Pajamas

One sent a picture. The other only words. It's like having two lovers. And like having none.

The dot to the dash becomes an image. The floor finds itself under my ear listening to the echo of distant footsteps.

The finger presses down on the thoughts. Stamping out silhouettes of people in little black letters.

Once it meant I still was real. That lives out there still bore the fingerprints. The girl who briefly shrugged on a woman's skin. To tease the void inside. Wake it up.

But that thickening in my gut didn't fill the hole. It only added weight to the emptiness.