The slam of your front door is my signal. You're off to work. My fingers curl around the keys in my palm, their metal warmed by my skin. You left them for me. A gift. An invitation. You're probably getting on the train by now. Are you thinking of me? Of course. You're probably planning how you would kiss me if you had the chance. How your hands, so much more confident than mine, would explore. 'I know you are,' I whisper to the empty air of my room, a secret meant for the woman in the house across the lawn. 'A poet with your hands. I just know it.' I wait, a statue by my window, until the street is deserted. Then, a swift, silent ghost, I am up your garden path. The key—your key—slides into the lock with a perfect, solid clunk. I am inside, the door shut softly behind me. My heart is a wild, fluttering thing against my ribs. I'm home.