I remember the very imprints that his fingers made upon my skin.
And when I think about it too much, those invisible caresses burn.
Like lips waiting to be kissed, that tingling.
The wetting of lips with the tip of an eager tongue.
I can already feel the inevitable kiss.
Neck craning out, inch by inch, yet still attempting to remain inconspicuous.
Moist lips now dry and chapped, puffs of breath may as well be scorching winds.