The Phantom Girl (revised)

Its now 9:02 and the blue bubble
lonely, surrounded
by an infinite sea of
blank space, is waiting
for the phantom girl's response.
Waiting to see her blonde hair,
so blonde it's as if the sun reached down and licked it,
streaming over her shoulders
down her terracotta back,
her slate blue eyes
rustic and industrial,
her cherry nails,
the paint freshly dried.
Waiting to feel her small warm hands
sliding down my back,
her pale pink lips
brushing against mine,
letting me taste the mint gum
she had chewed on the train earlier,
her smooth legs wrapping around me,
easing us onto the clouds of the covers
diving deep into the folds of the blanket
until we are lost among each others bodies.
Its now 9:03, and the blue bubble still sits alone.
There had been some hope this time,
but now I can feel her summer blond hair coiling itself around my neck,
like a snake around a tree,
squeezing until the last
breath of optimism escapes my bloated lips.