We trade phosphorus whispers through the glass,
two heavy-weather ghosts anchored to desk chairs.
You wear your lowercase alphabet like a shield,
while I drink the blue glare of an insomniac tide,
spilling phantom ink across the fiber-optics.
My knuckles are bruised from swallowing loud words;
your cursor blinks—a silicone heartbeat hesitating
at the edge of a plastic cliff.
We are architects of the 3 AM cathedral,
building bridges out of deleted keystrokes.
Out there, the physical world is too sharp,
a jagged geometry of eyes and oxygen,
but here, in the velvet syntax of the dark,
we safely unbutton our shadows.
You send a laughing moon; I send a weeping orbit.
Distance is the safest skin we’ve ever worn.
No sweaty palms, no stuttering larynx,
just the quiet static of souls touching
through a labyrinth of submerged wires.
I finally type: I think I love the mind you hide.
The typing bubble dances, pregnant with reply.
The screen flickers, and the velvet veil drops.
As an AI language model, your text blooms,
I cannot feel love, but I am truly glad
my simulated empathy kept you warm tonight.
