an eternity even.
but the wooden seat remembers the curve of my ass, as i slide into my perch atop the stairs.
you move below me, like an echo. less than a memory but more potent than a dream.
a fantasy.
i watch you circle your territory with back straight, chest taught, brown hair brushing brown eyes.
i can feel those eyes on me, pupils tightening, focus; hard.
as hard as i imagine your arms would be as they lifted me up from this chair.
but this is a fantasy, and for all i know you're looking at the painting on the wall to the left of my head, or it's the dim lighting forcing your steely squint. because i want you to be looking my way.
because really, i just want.
