Posting love letters from satellites
with your glowing glass telephone.
Your fingertips pitter and patter
like a sun shower of molten text
falling from the sky.
My archaic hands
clod and plod their way around
like mud skippers
in a clay pan.
But you nurture delicately
with aphrodisiac typefaces.
You are the thief of my black and blues,
You are my screen-saving cupid
You are my romantic smoking gun.