sometimes they like to find
deserted alleys where the air smells like rotten food
and the ground is covered in so much trash that
they are ankle deep in garbage
but it still tastes like
honey on their tongues as they tuck
their hands into each other's back pockets of skin-tight pants
and taste themselves on the other's lips and in the mouth and on
the back of the tongue

he's a natural dancer at heart, and so they move
to the invisible beat of their hearts
with the gyrating of hips with jeans fitted dangerously low
(fucking tease)

they're wanting to go faster, harder (deeper)
and he starts their bodies in an undulating wave with
lips and tongues and honeysweet kisses (and the aftertaste of a stick of cigarette)
while their hands tear at shirt and pants and bare skin
but it's no secret afterwards when they're both still heavily clothed and
leaning against the wall to catch their breath,
hands lodged firmly at the hipbone as they trace
the worn fabric of each other's jeans
and wonder if one dose was enough