for the first time, I have my hands on your hips,
and if I were a betting man I'd say the third shot of gin
is who put them there.
I am staring at your lower lip,
and you're staring at my eyes, or something.
the part of my brain that hasn't been inundated by alcohol is begging me to stop,
but the rest of me is begging you to never let go once your cold hands find my burning neck.