It’s a good thing we don’t live in the same city, because if we did I would be ringing your doorbell right now. I know you still live with her, that you‘ve been trading weeks on the couch. That you have been texting me for months now. I know you have the keys to a new flat and it’s been forever since she touched you. I know you‘re touch starved, ravenous, salivating. That you like how I look in red. That you talked to her, recalling just how ridiculously in love you once were, and in that moment realized it was really over. I surmised that last week was your turn on the couch. You surmised that she‘s probably been on a date with her coworker. It’s probably good that we don‘t live in the same city, because I slept 14 hours last night and I want to cause some trouble. So, live-in ex girlfriend or not, I would be there to cause the aforementioned trouble. My arms around your neck and, show me what the world looks like from way up there at your height. Let me show you what I taste like.
But it’s a good thing I am nowhere near London, where my impatient feet would be standing at the threshold. Where my impatient mouth would ask you to let me in.