it's sucha shame

I am dialing your number. I am pressing the buttons like salesmen pinch your pockets and squeeze their respect down to nothing. I can't blame them because I am also trying to sell you something, but with me, there are no vulgar catches or billboards with fancy, flashy letters expressing ideas like "Free", while under my breath I am not snickering and I'm not hoping that you catch on. There's something different about you. You did catch on, knowing very well what you were getting yourself into and all I want to know now is why you did it. You are right: you are wrapped around my finger and I hope you like it there because I love to see your smile when I raise my hand up in a quieting motion so that my lips can touch yours in peace. You mustn't utter a sound during the reaction in which you placed me. The salesmen have called and left before I could answer and I hope it's not the same with you. Was it you or me who called the other? Either way, one of us answered and the officials are on our side. That "No Loitering" sign is looking pretty desolate since I left it when you entered the room. The door is always open for you and tonight the stars are out twice as long.
The numbers I've recently pressed are circling through the airwaves now, and I am anxiously awaiting for you to greet me on the other end. Each time I hear the pulse my spine gets nervous and faints and I have to become a horizontal girl instead because I am incredibly in love with you.
Pulse, pulse, pulse.