Whenever I see you, the same fantasy runs through my mind.
I want to grab you by the hair and pull you closer with my fingertips. Push my lips against yours, wait for the surprise to fade and for your tongue peek into my mouth, wait for it to swirl against mine and for your body to slide closer.
I want to feel the electricity of your touch, the warmth of your mouth.
I want you to run your hands down my arms, an innocent touch that still makes me shiver. Then I want you to break the kiss, just long enough to tell me how badly you’ve wanted this or give me a look that says the same thing without words, and go straight back to kissing me.
I want the rest of the world to fade away, for the room we’re standing in to magically turn into a bedroom, so I can have you all to myself for long enough to feel your chest through your shirt and your bulge through your jeans.
I want to hear your breath quicken, feel the air against my neck. I want to kiss you in just the right spot and cause the smallest moan, a preview of what’s to come, of what your happiness sounds like.
I want to dig my nails into the skin of your back, because I can’t take it anymore, I can’t handle how good it feels, I can’t go one second more without your body and mine knitted together.
I want you to be thinking the same thing and reach for the edge of my shirt, raise it above my head and watch my hair tumble toward my shoulders. I want you to curse when you see me uncovered. I want you to break the silence to tell me how beautiful I look.
And when it’s my turn, I want to look you directly in the eyes as my fingers work on lifting your shirt, unzipping your jeans. I want us to be as quiet as we can, even though our minds are screaming, even though we have so many things we want to say.
I want to rip your clothes off, kiss you from your neck down, make you mine for at least the night.
But that fantasy is never going to become a reality. It’s just the daydream that flashes through my mind as soon as I see you.
In real life, I walk up to you with a forced smile. I say hello, how are you, how was your weekend like you don’t mean anything to me. Like I couldn’t care less about running into you.
I act like a friend, or less than a friend, like a stranger who knows your name and phone number.
You have no idea what I want to do to you, but maybe you can guess. Maybe you can read it from my eyes. Maybe you’re thinking the same thing and wondering whether I would kiss you back or push you away if you were brave enough to make a move.
Maybe we’re both together in our fantasies, and too terrified to turn it into our realities.