Pen Pals

April 12 2019

I have been writing this woman for weeks.

Have never seen her picture, or heard her voice.

Her style is breezy,

like talking over the fence

with an irreverent neighbour,

or the slightly giddy repartee

after a stiff first drink.

While I am wordy, confessional

and meticulously edited,

gushing unguardedly

yet strictly controlled.

These parts of me at war

for her to witness.

I like this distance,

where I can make of her what I want

and anything is possible,

while measuring myself out

with self-indulgent monologues

that spill like waterfalls

onto unyielding rocks.

When physical attraction

is not a factor

we wonder if we're getting at the other's soul

or rather simply imagining

the best of all possible worlds.

As if we each were brains

suspended in vats of nourishing broth,

the burble of oxygen

bubbling up.

So have we gained, or lost,

tapping away on my laptop

thumbs swiping her phone?

Or is a face ten thousand words

a voice a siren song?