He roams every night through his office, cigarette ablaze, much like my soul. I sit in my room, watching him from my window.

He moves to sit behind his desk, like a lion upon a throne of poise and power, sipping his coffee, while I, with my eyes, sip the drops of coffee that tenderly kiss his lips.

My gaze lingers on the veins in his hand, so clearly drawn they seize my imagination.

He places the cup back on the table with calm precision, and I remain frozen, mesmerized by his magnetic charm, my eyelids heavy with sleepless longing.

A man whose intellect shields him from the absurdity of life, lost in a sea of papers, just as I am lost in the spell of his eyes.

He is absorbed in his work, unaware of me hiding in the shadows, secretly addicted to him—forbidden, yet desired, because of his solemnity and busy mind, as irresistible as the first apple of sin.

I overwhelm him with glances that feel like touches. I lose myself in the details of his face as if drowning in it.

I almost sense the fragrance of his beard, dripping with masculinity.

He closes his papers and takes one final deep draw from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, and I tremble as if the smoke has touched my very bones.

My veins stir with a shy thrill, and the smoke fills my chest, building a rosy palace of passion, pulling me deeper into the labyrinth of my thoughts.

He leans back in his chair, tilting his head, revealing the perfection of his neck, completing the surreal beauty of the scene.

A breathless sigh rises within me, accompanied by a thousand burning desires for this man, indifferent to the foolish clamor of the world around him.

A man who commands the world with his right hand, and yet with his left, wrings my heart. 

He rises from his chair, standing tall like a palm tree, and begins to undo the buttons of his shirt.

My breath becomes a tangled thread woven into the fabric of his clothes, caught between his fingers.

I lose my grip on reality, drifting into a world where I breathe his scent, diving into the very pores of his being, a world of silence where I hear only the frantic beat of my passionate heart.

He moves toward the door, turning off the lights, and in that moment, he pulls me from my waking dreams, sending me back to my bed, where I live only half a life until the night returns.

Then, once more, I become a butterfly, alive to drift and flutter on the edge of his window.