like ninja hedgehogs in the night,
furtively sneaking up to my letterbox and slipping whispers in,
for me to stumble on in the morning, running out in my ridiculous pyjamas,
clutching my standby plate of stale biscuits and unopened bottle of sherry,
to find them long gone, as always, having retreated back
into the sweet unassailable sanctuary of remote untangled anonymity.
One night I shall lie in wait in darkness behind the letterbox,
with a pair of handcuffs at the ready,
waiting for their hand to reach in, which I will cuff to mine,
demanding their full undivided attention,
while I make them feel the tender undigitised pulsating warmth of human touch,
and bid them have a real unquarantined conversation with me,
with laughs instead of lols and smiles instead of smileys,
until their supernatural new age estrangement is exorcised from their hijacked human hearts,
and the age of hidden whispers is consigned to the past.