I knew it they were coming,
your lips of lime rinds and cigarettes,
bitter and savory and perfectly acceptable
for a night out.

I knew because of the way your fingers
ever so slightly curled
when I grazed up against you accidentally,
then intentionally,
and they pushed my blazer away
tracing the small of my back
the only part of my body
I'm not self conscious about.

I linked eyes with an old friend across the room
and cloudy eyes his were
not shiny glassy like mine.
He turned his head in disgust
and I turned my head in reception
and so it began.

Your mouth was like a third hand,
I should've expected it,
with your siberian husky eyes,
scratching and tearing at my lips
and ears and neck and shoulders
until we reached quiet
and then I felt like my bladder might burst
while classic rock spewed out of bad speakers
distorted and buzzing the redwood floor.

And something did burst
out of you
into me
and it took you until the end of "Layla"
to crawl off
but only the first bars of "Freebird"
to rejoin the masses
while I sat with my more than half empty
malibu sunset
chewing the ice, swishing my straw
and wondering what I did wrong this time.