You unlace your loafers, skillfully trapsing through the doorway and dropping them unceremoniously on the mat. I then scribble out the thought and imagine that you've kept one on in your haste to the home office.
There you go; hardly missing a laboured breath as you shut the door — surrounded in the oxygen that only you breathe within these confines.
You have two buttons at the end of your dress shirt undone, and you're getting the collar further loose by undoing two more that sit up at the top; revealing your sternum to no one.
I can't picture whether or not your bust carries much hair; you shave your face enough for me to gauge that there's something worth keeping off your visage. Anyway, you don't strip out of the dress shirt. That's the rule.
Your stray left loafer with untied shoelace has a foot inside which trembles underneath the innersole. You are impatient, I know.
A million girls swarm you on this day in particular on the usual morning of, or at least you watch them blur into muddy watercolor greens as I stand by overlooking.
You turn a picture frame the wrong way around to avoid the guilt of your soon to be committed crime. You slump into the clean leather of your office chair, and wheel yourself towards the blind-coated window.
It's cracked open at the bottom, slightly. The air hits your ruddy face, and ah —
A sound produced by the event of your fussing hand. I think about it clawing at your belt buckle; ripping it out of the loops and lying flaccidly as if some sort of second skin peeled away from you.
Hand with the shining band dips into the mess of an unzipped fly, and you're a tangerine ripe for desire; squeezing the citrus out of yourself, grappling with the zest of your want.
You feel guilty, I hope; my sun-glazed skin comes to mind. My chatty mouth, my amber eyes by sunlight's claim, my high cheekbones plague you. You recall my soft alto. You know not that my voice is simply code-switching for you.
Anyway, after a fight with daybreak; you spill your guiltitude and clear up; turning the frame back the right way.
Defiled, you finally have the dignity to take off that other loafer.
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 11:32 AM UTC
You unlace your loafers, skillfully trapsing through the doorway and dropping them unceremoniously on the mat. I then scribble out the thought and imagine that you've kept one on in your haste to the home office.
There you go; hardly missing a laboured breath as you shut the door — surrounded in the oxygen that only you breathe within these confines.
You have two buttons at the end of your dress shirt undone, and you're getting the collar further loose by undoing two more that sit up at the top; revealing your sternum to no one.
I can't picture whether or not your bust carries much hair; you shave your face enough for me to gauge that there's something worth keeping off your visage. Anyway, you don't strip out of the dress shirt. That's the rule.
Your stray left loafer with untied shoelace has a foot inside which trembles underneath the innersole. You are impatient, I know.
A million girls swarm you on this day in particular on the usual morning of, or at least you watch them blur into muddy watercolor greens as I stand by overlooking.
You turn a picture frame the wrong way around to avoid the guilt of your soon to be committed crime. You slump into the clean leather of your office chair, and wheel yourself towards the blind-coated window.
It's cracked open at the bottom, slightly. The air hits your ruddy face, and ah —
A sound produced by the event of your fussing hand. I think about it clawing at your belt buckle; ripping it out of the loops and lying flaccidly as if some sort of second skin peeled away from you.
Hand with the shining band dips into the mess of an unzipped fly, and you're a tangerine ripe for desire; squeezing the citrus out of yourself, grappling with the zest of your want.
You feel guilty, I hope; my sun-glazed skin comes to mind. My chatty mouth, my amber eyes by sunlight's claim, my high cheekbones plague you. You recall my soft alto. You know not that my voice is simply code-switching for you.
Anyway, after a fight with daybreak; you spill your guiltitude and clear up; turning the frame back the right way.
Defiled, you finally have the dignity to take off that other loafer.
