You are the chills that make traveling down my spine its hobby
when your breath slides itself temptingly down the pattern of my sweating neck
and both of our names become a slurred chorus of too-close puffy lips and rolled back eyes and soft writhing hips being spoken over each other with more crescendo each time and louder and louder and you know my fingernails have always thirsted for your skin and my tongue has always pleaded to be a part of you and
my breaths have refused to do anything else than inhale your exhales.
The windows of your car are perspiring like us and I think the temperature is rising high enough for everything to explode.
I think this moment was always meant to happen.