Cold nights astray
chasing your ghosts.
I stroke the cell phone screen
posing the index
on your electronic cheek.
Sweet onanistic technology.
Wrapped in its static spell
I browsed websites
looking for your pixel meat.
I kiss your flat lips,
imagining its relief.
Fingers walking
on seas of liquid crystal
find you so clear in the absence,
remembering
each mole,
every fold,
as if there were no need to review
the longing look
on your image archive.
Photographers: Nik To
Bookseller and bibliomaniac reader with fourteen years of experience, based in Mexico City.