Regrets and disillusionment mean nothing to me; they are a want forgotten.
A taxi pulls up outside the house. It, in its own ridiculous, pertinant 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. Perhaps she is 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 night.