You called me up.
I was expecting to hear
from you again.
I put down the remote,
seized the car keys
and drove.
I was beginning to think
I was the only number
in your phone,
winding my rickety vehicle along
neon-drenched streets.
What was it going to be this time?
I’d seen the words
drooled on your hands,
the frowning duvet
ten times or more before.
You’d bathe with your clothes on,
leave fingerprints on hotel windows.
I went along with it all.
Yes, of course I did,
our silver thumb stamps
wedded in a hundred rooms.
When I arrived
you told me about knee-high socks,
vowels slinking out your mouth
like each one was made of wine.
3am.
I touched your nose-ring,
you tugged at my shirt.
Yes. Yes.
I drove you home.