My beautiful stranger

Steam rises from my coffee cup, warm against my lips, but not as warm as the thoughts stirring in me, as I see her gliding down my street like a living ache, wrapped in a dress that clings too close, too right.

She moves like she knows I’m watching.
Maybe she does.
Maybe she wants me to.
Each step writes stories across my skin scenarios thick with sweat and breath and the sound of her moaning into my ear like a secret.

I imagine her in my room,
sunlight painting her bare shoulders,
dress half undone,
pressed to my chest, her body soft,
eager, trembling.

My hands know where they’d go.
They’d explore her slowly at first, reverent,
then deeper, firmer tracing that delicious path between her thighs,
feeling her shudder,
whisper my name like a sin.

The street swallows her,
but she’s already here with me,
etched behind my eyes,
in my palms,
between my legs.

The coffee’s gone cold,
but I’m burning from a touch that never came,
yet branded me all the same.

My beautiful stranger roams down the street silently in my morning desire.