regrets and disillusionment mean nothing to me; they are a want forgotten.
a taxi pulls up outside the house. it, in its own ridiculous, pertinent way, is exactly what i talk of. it is desire arriving with the gentle crescendo of pitch.
i hear it, alert.
perhaps it is an old lover, i think: mistaken and apologetic, knocking at my door to seek reconciliation, friendship and physical warmth.
i walk down the stairs and open the front door, just to be sure. there is nothing there except the cold, rainy night.
