The Afterparty

Those months before, I snuck looks at the dye

of dotted heart she’d poked on her own wrist.

I thought, it’s just the ink that draws my eye,

yet we both knew how sharp and steep I wished.

Tonight, her warmth burns through my bitter fear;

the ember kiss that melts a cigarette.

In the liquored hours before the sun appears,

my waist in hand, we sway among silhouettes.

The booming bass ripples across the sleek

blue night, as we spiral round and round entwined.

She turns my face with fingertips to speak,

before trading whispers from her lips to mine.

She holds my gaze – beneath those satin eyes,

I am a beating jar of fireflies.