She once was just a call away,
a number encrypted with anonymity
yet deciphered by friendship.
And she said things one would expect
a woman of such sheltered beauty to say.
Like “I can’t believe I’m talking to you.”
And “I haven’t made love since just before never.”

She used to crave sheer moments
of simply affirmed affection.
To tell her that her melodious voice
"shattered your loneliness"
or that her barely audible sighs
"banished forever your dejection"
transformed her phone into an organ
of sumptuous, sensuous reception.
And her sighs would grow louder, and louder still.

And she surprised you when you told her
”I need you now.” 
And she replied with the delicious details
of how she was slipping off her panties
and beginning to cravingly self-fondle
her wetness, (the splash could almost be heard over the phone)
while swallowing your every passionate response thereto
like the cum from a verbal erection.

Then her phone died one day (like all erections do). 
Perhaps the rings all rang out.
Or the quota for transmissions had been exceeded.
And you couldn’t call. 
And she never called back.
And now you understand what they meant
when they sang
“Wel-come…to Ma-chine.”