My skin is eight different kinds of dry
my fingers shorting like circuits
my mind ventured near permafried
but boosts of serotonin were worth it

My hands didn't get enough
of the good time beneath those layers
They were timid and shaky, too coy
for your self-assured bares

I can't paint the picture of you and I
the canvas is blank until colors collide
wide strokes of red to signify the
passion bleeding from my insides

I'm on the edge of my seat
precariously perched
anxiously gripping the edge
of your tousled and wrinkled shirt

I've waited for you to catch on
but oblivion runs deep, my dear
I'll speak my mind, loud and clear
It is you I want; I want you here