not really but kinda i want to

touch the side of your face which has not been shaved for several days, watch your eyes roll back into their sockets as the lids come down--your understated indication of ecstasy. your jaw sags also, slightly, as you draw a bated breath.

i imagine dancing in your field of vision. with another stranger in loud saturated dimness, in synchronized glamorized perfection, in black glittering tops, that you'll look upon me in lustful wonder and i'll know it. will feel the weight of your gaze while i feign ignorance but the laughter coming from my throat will be real. so ever ever so real.

not really but kinda i want to imagine or make fiction a reality where the rules of this scenario do not exist, that you are perfect, that i am perfect and we are perfect and we don't get together. we simply become best friends that draw no suspicion and can lean our heads on each others shoulders whenever we wish. at our every whim.

surprise you at work and make all of your co-workers jealous

leave you little notes that you'll find during the day that will just make you want to rush home and ravage me.

but not really i kinda want to frame my thoughts behind a top-of-the-line industry-standard 35mm camera which pans in slow motion shallow depth of field when any wind blows my hair back or i stand impressively in front of any such breathtaking picture. and you, looking from afar, will be the most imaginary, imaginary like myself, perfect man any movie-watcher has ever laid eyes on. our on-screen chemistry will spark a fire of shameless public fantasies and fan-sites and celebrity twitter and facebook pages in our homage and we can name our child something outrageous like Matzah, or Philanthrophy. i'll be the poet. you be the babydaddy. really. but not really.