Listen, Harvard, we need to talk. Again.

Our hunch is you’re playing hard to get. Yes, we might have left you last year for our Jersey fling. But this time, it’s all you.

Fine. While you’re playing hard to get until Jan. 1, we’ll score all the action — early. If you’re lucky, after you’ve spent enough time playing solitaire with Henry Longfellow, tucked away in your Harvard Yard bunks, you’ll get a taste of our sloppy seconds.

Worried, you are, hmm? Maybe just a little?

Then again, after that recent brush with scabies, no one wants to touch you anyway; so it’s probably better that you hold off for that extra two months. However, I hear there’s a potent cream for that crimson rash — but we’re not certain of the side effects. Why don’t you ask your reliable and accomplished alum, Dr. Jan Adams? (Look it up.)

But while you’re knockin’ those colonial-style, buckle-strapped boots, we’re moving on to newer pastures — 4,820 supple new pastures to be exact.

After they get a glimpse of us, what can you possibly do to convince them otherwise? Lure them with your priority treatment of undergraduates?

If all else fails, lie. Lie to them all! Say that you’re really a fun place to be. You’re not above that. After all, your law school gave us Al Gonzales.

And what’s with today’s cheap shots at ole Eli? Your precious Puritan father only lent you a name over his dead body. Literally. But, we probably would have done the same.

The thing is, we don’t need you anymore. And still you come running to 06520? You want to sleep at our place again? Crimson, have some dignity. I’m not Rachel. You’re not Ross. This isn’t a successful sitcom from the ’90s — we’re still wondering how it’s lasted to the 124th season.

If this is an attempt at a comeback tour, we only ask that you give us, give us more. Maybe take off your shirt. No. Definitely take off your shirt. They’re funny. SIKE! (Bet you didn’t think we’d bring that one back. But we did.)

Aw, Cantab. Mistakes were made, we know. Don’t beat yourself up. And we admit it: Your being hard to get is working to some extent. We’re not just winning every game to impress Jodi Foster. Drew Giplin Faust, that silver fox, is quite a looker, too.

We miss our first date — when you called yourself Magenta — and the Head of the Charles the first time we visited you in Lamebridge. But this hopelessly imbalanced relationship will not be a relapse of 1968, Harvard.

Because even if we tie again tomorrow, don’t forget who’s getting all the action.