my hips are moving around
like I'm dancing a frantic salsa
as I wrestle my conscience
and my clothes
in the dark comfort of a construction site

lips meeting lips and necks
hips meeting hips and hands
and there are three words on the tip of my tongue
"I l...."

Tilt.
It's illegal,
like pressing up against a pinball machine,
and my dress is in your hands
you're handing it back to me
claiming you've heard someone

We're a thousand light years away
from anyone who would disapprove
but the silent rhythm has been broken
and I am writhing alone in overturned dirt
as your tires spin fast and hard
pulling you down the street.