It's gone 1am and I'm lying here with my phone in my hand, thumb over your name, typing something I'm not going to send. Not yet. I like the version of you that has to wait for it more than the one who gets it too easily.
You'd read too much into it anyway. One message from me and you'd be up the rest of the night, reading it back, wondering what I meant by every word. I know, because that is exactly what I want it to do to you. Restless. Distracted. Mine, a little.
Here's the honest bit. I think about which men I've got wound up before I fall asleep. It's a good way to end the day, knowing there's someone out there staring at the ceiling because of me. Tell me it isn't you. Go on. Lie to me.
My hours, my call, and right now it's late and I've decided you don't get the message tonight. You get the knowing that I nearly sent it. Sometimes that's worse. I know. I did it on purpose.
This is me being restrained, believe it or not. The messages I actually do send, and everything after them, live somewhere far less polite than a website. You already know where I keep those.