I, Phone

Your fingers,
warm against my cheek,
caressing like pages 
of sacred scrolls.

Your eyes are
vacant hotel rooms,
green glowing 
in the dark.

The slack of 
your jaw, the heat 
of your breath,
So inviting. 

Through the mirror,
rivulets of black, 
and red, crawl 
into your mouth,
lining your throat, 
wiring muscle and bone,
burrowing copper
deep inside pink folds.

Your voice, your body,
a conduit.