Heat

We walk outside,
and I feel the heat instantly,
but you don't let go of my hand.

I'm sweating,
and I'm gross,
but you won't let go of my hand.


My stories are silly,
my laugh is goofy,
but you won't let go of my hand.

My hair is frizzy,
my allergies are acting up,
but you won't let go of my hand.

"Damn, it's hot," I say.

"Or is it just you?" he says,
and then,
and only then,
does he let go of my hand.

He lifts it to my face,
and he kisses me.