I want to be your pants
I want to be your pants. Not just any pair of pants. I don't want to be your sweatpants, although the friction of your thighs on the exercycle is alluring. I don't want to be your hipster corduroys, the skitch skitch skitch noise would make me crazy. I don't even want to be your favorite jeans, although being next to you on at least a weekly basis is a lovely notion.
I want to be your fancy pants. I want to be the pants that sit in anticipation on a padded hanger, just waiting for the occasion worthy of me. I want to be the pants that cost too much but that you just had to have. I want to be the pants that flatter your ass so well it brings out the lech in a nun. I want to be the pants that only touch your body when it is fresh and perfumed. I want to be the pants made out of such luxurious material that when your hand caresses them as you file through your closet you pause, just for a moment, and relish the texture. I want to be the pinnacle pants in your collection.