She likes when you call her baby
and you like the way she likes it.

How you want her isn’t so much
electric
as it is a slow burn at the tips of your fingers.

You’ve lost sleep thinking about her mouth.
She’s this buzz in your blood like
the radio down low and
humid nights in midsummer;
she’s all young love and
messy ponytails and
sweat at the nape of the neck.

You want to kiss her.
You’ve convinced yourself
that would be enough.