Across the Wire.

Your voice came low—

like thunder held in the throat of night.

I lay back,

lights off,

one hand resting at my chest,

the other already wandering.

We spoke in half-sentences,

in breaths that caught mid-word,

in the long, charged silence

where nothing was said

and everything was felt.

You told me where your hands would go

if you were here,

described it slowly,

each word a fingertip,

trailing heat down my spine

until I was arching into nothing

but your voice.

I whispered your name

not once

but over and over,

as if it could pull you through the line,

as if sound could substitute for touch.

And when I came

it was your name I fell into,

your voice that carried me through.

Not a screen,

not a signal—

but you.

Afterward,

we didn’t speak.

Only listened

to each other’s breathing

still tangled,

still burning

from a distance we both

knew how to close.