Last night your fingers threaded Through mine like plastic vines In a gallery, grapes dripping like lime Drops off of peels. "You'd better not Leave me," you murmured, buses Shuddering down your throat, Passengers coughing with plastic Coated family members. My hands Pulled up my waistband, damp And smudged with your lipstick, Pursed mouth pressed to fabric. "I won't," I answered, and you tasted Like frosted cold before snow, Grey scapes and city spread over tongue, Salt and strawberry pink dotted thighs.