A Wild Young Under-Whimsy

I want you to kiss me on the back of my neck. It's probably my terrible posture that makes me think this - an entire career spent in front of various computers in various ergonomically unsound chairs. It's probably my draughty old house that groans in this weather like a ship at sea, and the ancient floral shirt I'm wearing that gapes at its frayed collar.

But I would wilt under your lips. I would take my glasses off; I wouldn't need them. I would close my tired eyes and take a big breath that pushed apart my shoulderblades.

There are many things I'd tell you then.