Olivia Taylor's poem is a memory of closeness with someone the speaker clearly can't let go of. It starts with small, physical details: linked fingers, locked eyes, a warm smile that the speaker feels only they could bring out. The scene of two twenty-one-year-olds goofing around on a couch like kids gives it a playful, innocent edge, which makes the growing tension feel even more charged.
The speaker admits they never kissed, even though they could have many times, and the poem seems to live in that unanswered "almost." A hand on the neck, a hand on the leg: each touch is described as powerful, even when it barely does anything. The line "That gets me every time" suggests the memory still hits hard in the present.
The mood is tender, longing, and a little breathless. By the end, the speaker is fully surrendering, ready to follow this person anywhere, "to hell" included. It's an honest, unguarded confession of desire and devotion.