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.