This Isn't a Key

Before we met I said "never, no never again" but you built a fantasy out of a darkened cloakroom and a wide-open window. You held a key, but leaned against the door, whispered sweet wild things, your ear against the echoing wood. "I'm on the other side; is the key in your hand?"

You're not sure how to use it, why would you be? I flatten my hand against the door, so close if I lean in I can feel the warmth of your sweet face.

"Open the door, open the door."

I can't tell but I think you shook your head. I heard you whisper, "this isn't a key" before you walked away. I heard metal on the floor.