My palms perspire
becoming slick
against the vinyl
of the steering wheel
as I glance toward you.
Your long brown hair
flows over your shoulders
with the slightest crimp cascading
in an elegantly sepia frame
hugging the curvature
of your cheeks,
illuminated in the waxing lunar glow.

Your hand slowly rises
to the crest of your ear and
you comb your fingers
down your auburn locks,
stalling at their journey's end.
Your bronze eyes
gaze out the frosted window
as you nimbly spool
your hair around your slender finger,
with the increasing tightness of each revolution
so tightens your pull on me.

I pull into the furthest back space
of the vacant lot, applying the brake
and shifting
into park.
Your head turns, subconsciously
biting your lip. The click
of your seatbelt, Cupid's
all-too-familiar bow-twang,
brings your hands to my face and
my lips to your kiss.