leans in, low-cut mangogreen cleavage, loopsropey arms around my neck,pulls me close. cool olive fleshwelcomes me home.
she drapes herself, velvetover armchairs, lounges, torsotwisted in uncomfortable angles,swirls triangular glassessweating cold gin.
I tell her I am not in the mood for a drink; I prefer baggy denim to black-tie.
she smells of cigarettes I never smoked, thick red steak bleeding onto dinner plates,
and I don’t eat meat. I offer her a pair of sweatpants, promise to read her poetry.
she silently flexes her stilettos,coyly curls emphatic lipstick,exhales martini fogthe shape of everything familiarand full of ache; sets the vinylpast in motion, drops the needle:
One more dance Love, one more dance.