They’re never just fabric, are they?Not to me. A whisper of lace caught at the hip,black silk clinging like a secret I was never meant to keep. Cotton that’s softened from too many washes still carrying the faint warm signature of where you sit all day things pressed together when you drive to work, crossing and uncrossing in a meeting, standing too long at the copier while someone talked about deadlines. I think about the elastic kissing the small of your back, the way the waistband leaves the gentlest red ghost-line I’d trace with a knuckle if I were allowed behind you right now. I imagine the crotch is already darker than it should be, not from an accident, but from the slow treason of your own body listening to a memory of my voice or the brush of denim against itself when you shift in your chair. You’re reading this at your desk, aren’t you? Breath shallow, pretending to study a spreadsheet.Thighs clenching once hard then forcing themselves apart again like good girls who’ve been told to behave. But the pulse between them doesn’t listen. It answers in Morse code: yes yes slower don’t you dare stop reading I like them peeled down just enough, still tangled at the knees, so I can see the damp proof that poetry can be a weapon when it lands inside someone trying to stay professional. Keep scrolling, sweetheart. Let the words settle low. Let your panties ruin themselves a little more while you pretend you’re only checking email. I’ll be here, quiet, collecting every tremor you won’t let show.She  has to lock her screen now. Probably has to press her lips together and remember how to breathe through her nose. Probably hates me a little. Probably doesn’t