Phone: Erotika

As if, for eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds, distance was just another word for anticipation.

The phone grows slick against my cheek. I switch it to the other ear, and your voice follows me, seamless, like a ghost that learned to love the living. We are not two people in separate cities. We are one circuit, incomplete until the other speaks.

I hear your smile. It’s not in your voice—it’s in the silence after, the one you hold like a held breath. Then you say, Leave it. phone erotika

And I do.

I close my eyes. The bedroom darkens behind my lids. Outside, rain stitches the air to the pavement. Inside, only this: the faint static of distance collapsing, your exhale threading through the speaker like smoke. As if, for eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds,

Your instructions arrive like low tide pulling out—each one receding just enough to make me lean forward, chasing the next. I obey not out of submission but out of hunger for what your voice does to my spine: turns it into a live wire, humming. My free hand travels without my permission. Or maybe with it. I’ve stopped knowing the difference.

You groan. Low. Almost pained. And that sound—that perfectly imperfect, unguarded sound—is more naked than either of us will be tonight. We are not two people in separate cities

The phone is a third hand now, warm against my cheek. Not the sterile, glassy cool of morning screens, but something almost alive—conductive. I hold it like a secret, like a shell pressed to my ear, and inside, instead of the ocean, there is you.