Get your fingers off his fucking dick:
Oh, it seems so simple to say when we’re
drenched in sweat, stuck to benches and
watching the club lights flicker us back to nightlights,
but when the morning crests, we’ll be asleep in sweaters,
little cuts of trash in this shithole town –
That’s when the words will truly stick.
Emotion only slides right before sleep slips in.
A million liquids fill the night air, and I’m feverish.
Only a couple of inches to close before I reclaim my territory
in flushed skin and rabid nails, bitten with the bitter nervousness.
We’re both whores, honey,
playing telephone to each other and
filtering assumptions through his tinny ears.
These we nibble, sour sweets – [poor] kids in a candy store,
touching is louder in pitch black.
Which is why it erupts with endless echoing
when we both discover that’s it’s
you that’s touching me.
