Days pass muddily, time is stuck.
Five more to go with the right luck.
At time and a half, hours tick;
The stroke of five does not come quick

Rush hour feels more like rush year;
Finally, your exit I near.
I dance up steps to the right floor,
A sweaty palmed knock on your door

The moment long overdue,
Is the heat before I kiss you.
The second between our lips meet,
That's the ****** I crave all week.