I wrote all those poems, hoping you, some girl I don’t know, some girl I’ve never met, some girl who lives so far away from me, living your own exciting life, feeling your own portions of a separate existence… I wrote all those poems in hopes that you’d send me a naked picture of yourself.

So when you did, it was a really redeeming feeling for me. It made it seem like I could make things happen with my mind, it made me feel like I’m sorta on the right path to getting what I want; things like you. Things like your nudity, your shape, your form, your honest, your offering of yourself, even just as a visual treat. A snack for my eyes and all those fabulous fantasies I can concoct. 

I don’t care that you’re embarrassed or shy, or whatever subtle lies you need to tell yourself. I just care about the part of you that’s you. I just like seeing what you can be, I like seeing what you are, and what you want to be. I can catch glimpses of what you want to be when you show yourself to me.

All that writing, all that typing, just for a bit of flesh. Expose a nipple, stroke yourself between your legs. Bite your lip and look into the camera, suggesting of self-pleasure as you stare into the blankly all-seeing eye of the camera. Record yourself on video, coming  in reverse, as want grows in a burst and then settles within your centre. 

I use her like pornography and pay her in attention. She searches for the right word, and just sends more images, in the end.