Yes.

I read you.
You read me.
I desire you, always (before or after last august)

I desire you as to have the face of a pervert when I think of your smile, as to gasp for breath in the way I'd make you gasp.

I hunger for every inch of your skin, for your hair on my face as you ride me like a polo pony.

I thirst for your half-open eyes as you murmur sweet nothings that are my everything.

I quake at the thought of your salt on my tongue, of my lips playing with yours, outnumbered.