Sick of the scrolling
pausing at you every time.
Pondering the feel of your dark mane
spilling through my fingers.
My eyes pour at your waist and hips
nestled inside my right arm as we walk.
Your merlot fingernails brushing
the side of my neck as I inhale
a faint sweetness on your skin.
Sick of typing and not seeing
your eyes absorbing my words,
trapped, waiting for your thoughts
to appear in a new blue bubble,
that in my dreams I hear whispered,
languidly with warm breath into my ear
as your head rests on my shoulder.
Sick of sitting, imagining the quiet stare
the ice in our drinks melting between us
Then I snap awake from my reverie
seeking more pixellated details,
dreaming about your laughter
echoing onto the footpath infront of us
as again I scroll on...
