This message was composed with PhatWare WritePad.

Finger my machine
Sip it
on the rocks.
It felt that
return, the fell swoop
of my gestures
the bright infected
with my shadows.
My machine does not care
if I spout gibberish
does not correct sense,
only strains to read my fingertip, broken and sometimes, not now,
bleeding through its little canyons.
It recognizes me. The way no one does. No one feels my finger on a hard cold back.
In the movies. A note in lipstick, chocolate, blood. Scraping silently
in defense against something not unlike real love.