in a dim lit bar,
where orange hues
soften our brains,

our pathetic pulsing hearts
spout whiskey blood
into our muscles

and we flip quarters
into each other’s creased hands,
waiting for the other to

drop the game,
our eyelashes flashing
distracting cravings.

but

your eyes aren’t chocolate pools
until rye sets flame
to your inhibitions.

i won’t take the invitation
for a sticky dip.