Short Message Service
Collapsing distance: 1,500 miles apart yet your words are the only thing here with me. Clasping buckle: the collar that I wear around my neck, tightening it myself in the absence of your hands. Collapsing shutter: my phone’s camera capturing my spasms, coming for you because you commanded me to. Clasping hands: around my phone as you text me praise, around my breast as I am filled by you from afar. The metadata makes reality out of our kink imaginary. Each message a timestamp of my devotion, your possession. Through two screens I still feel your tug on my leash. A Cartesian collapse, grounded in my embodiment, mind dropping and stomach leaping to meet each other when you call me your pet and I don’t need your voice to hear your conviction and I don’t need your fingers clasping my sun-warmed skin to feel held. The metadata makes real me sucking your fingers and whining into you. Lays plain the subtext when you bite my neck, claim clavicle, and leave me marked. It’s a pandemic, I can only travel into myself, where this year I was unmade a wife and found myself more a dyke, where you saw leather inside & showed me how to find it. And so I call you Sir, and mean it. And so it is here for now where I can collapse into your lap and nuzzle into you, feeling that toothsome throb on my skin. Check the timestamps: it happened. A record as real as liturgy, hands clasped together, doing what hands do.