"the heat must finally be getting to her"
i think as you press your lips to mine.
your hand is hot on my sternum,
and the lip gloss you wear tastes like cherries.
i won't tell you how long i've wanted to do this
but i put the feeling into the way my fingertips
dance across your skin.
using heat as an excuse won't work for me
because i haven't stopped thinking about you for years,
but i'd rather feel horrible afterwards than assume
you could feel the same way.