Slipped away to the night market alone and the crowd's so thick nobody notices me stopping every few steps to take photos I shouldn't be sending. Every stranger brushing past has no idea what I'm really thinking about right now. Bet you'd recognize the look on my face.
Told him I was shopping for work clothes, but everything I brought into this fitting room is lace and see-through. Tell me what you'd do if you slipped through that curtain.
Drove an hour past the last streetlight for the peak — hatch up, blanket down, and the new moon made it so dark I stripped before I could even see my own hands. Every streak of light overhead and I'm still thinking about you. Tell me what you'd wish for if you climbed in here with me.
Went up the trail to scout a viewing spot for tomorrow's eclipse and found this clearing completely empty. Something about all that open sky and nobody around made me lose every piece of clothing before I even sat down. Tell me what you'd do if you came around that bend right now.
Found the astronomy section looking for a book on the Perseids — ended up in the one aisle nobody visits all afternoon with my skirt around my waist and my fingers exactly where they shouldn't be in a public building. Tell me you wouldn't kneel between these shelves and finish what I started.
His taillights just disappeared around the corner and the first thing I did was climb up on the washing machine with nothing but his flannel on. Eight hours alone in this house and I'm already this wet — tell me how you'd spend the first hour with me.
Every stranger's hand on my waist at that park dance just made me think of you, so I slipped into the restroom to show you what all that spinning really did. Tell me you wouldn't have followed me in.
Up on the roof because sleep won't come, his shirt unbuttoned to the warm air, pretending I'm here for the early shooting stars but really just thinking filthy thoughts under the open sky. Tell me what you'd wish for if you were lying next to me right now.
He's still asleep and I'm at the farmers market buying peaches that are almost too ripe, in a dress that's almost too thin, thinking things that are definitely too dirty for a Saturday morning. Bet you'd know exactly which one to pick for me.
The driver hasn't checked his mirror once. Good — because my dress hasn't been where it's supposed to be since I got in, and my fingers definitely haven't either. Tell me what you'd say to make me finish before we hit my stop.