In the Backseat

Perspiration trickles down
Sweat beads, that caress
Like inspiration on goose pimpled flesh.
Responding to scary familiarity,
trembling hands go fumbling
to grasp at straps
and buckles and skin.
Taught reactions fraught with impulse.
Worrying about predatory familiarity
as whispers gush for secret places,
afraid for the thoughts that wish
for a four letter word that isn't love.
Simple kisses erupt in magma flows
that fertilize the broken soil,
for nature seldom complex's thoughts.
There's a calmness in the promises,
but crosses stare down
memories of forgotten lectures.
Exhale. Then inhale,
with balled up fists
and a cold streamed shower
to wash the sin away.
If human nature be worth it
to condemn,
then condemn,
for I partake for silence.