We’ve taken drugs and we’re going dancing, because we aren’t going to have sex. While the fuel is still adrenaline, I dress everyone in stripes.
We taxi and it hits so fast, streaking lights and I can’t stop talking, really? Really. Everything is lit up out of every single window, and we reach our destination and scatter out and find all these people and bottles and sidewalk and night, and it’s all so outside and nowhere near where we want to be, grab a cab let’s go back we need to go right now right NOW.
Not one of the four can stop the words, we skid on our own fast and loose tongues in the unreality of the taxi. So close when I see that holy fuck he is headed straight for the fucking bridge stop stop stop — two grab either arm (so warm, fingertips on both sides indenting just-so into my biceps) and the other laffos, cavalier, don’t mind her, just a little excited tonight, not from here, new in town.
Scamper chattering upstairs. The three collapse on the floor, acquiescing to tactile pleasures. But I need movement, I must. James Blake marks the moment in indelible aural ink. My spine twists and I embrace the depth of the moaning hums with all I can offer, letting him enter in each pore and shoot out my extremities. Show me why you’re strong.
J_____? Will you take off your shirt?
It’s that you dance like no one I’ve ever seen. Your shirt hides your body.
And all the world’s a stage