I couldn't think of the right words to say, 
can't say it'll matter that much, anyway.
Francis types.
I can see her through the screen; 
her words resonate with my soul.
She plays with Tarot cards, 
whatever the hell those are, 
she calls for a spirit,
But I'd rather her call for my lips.
She doesn't know it, 
but they'd look pretty good on hers.
A soft wind pulls her ponytail,
And hormones race through my body.
The screen I look through, 
there she is on the other end.
But the words get confused,
And the conversation dies.