Nothing Naughty, Just A Hacked Account

I miss sneaking upstairs with the girl you fancy and
doing nothing naughty, instead just laughing about everything and nothing and somethings and possibilities and the future, but not the future like
5 year ISA accounts or children, but
wild horse fantasies that charge through the bedroom, double-A alarm clock ending
up down the line of time somewhere new yet familiar, like
déjà vu dreams of cities you've visited before yet your passport missed that flight altogether.
I also miss the familiar feeling of someone,
that predetermined routine of typing your address and bank card details
into another internet form;
you know the number and name of your street,
you know the county and the country and your post code details,
you know the expiry date, the 16 digits that make up your misery,
you know the secure code on the back,
you know what her back feels like in your palms,
her hips too.

And I'm still waiting for my bank to ring up, 4 missed calls, the call of an alarm,
saying I'm a fraud and the account has been hacked,
but that threat is non existent,
as are you.