If we are anything at all;

if we are anything at all,

we are drinks and more drinks

and sweet, sweet drunkeness

by means of your whiskey, jack and coke

and my fancy cocktails in fancy shiny glasses

touching the center of our mouths,

we are touching, touching

of the most discreet kind

underneath tables, bars and slip-on dresses

(making us what people might think

unbelievable dysfunctional messes)

we are shadowy figures of the night

in fifty dollar darkened cabs

underlying with full intentions

of engaging in backseat trysts

with what could only be our wandering lips

that keep accidentally meeting

with open mouth kisses

while your hand, somehow, keeps slipping

because i let it

only to leave me wanting more

and outside of all of that

we are a push and pull

and a further push push away

from what we might really want

to happen between us

and we are these misinterpreted words

and a lack of communication

and incredibly high walls

with no interest in climbing them at all

but yet we still can't help but

flirt with the idea

of you and me

or you in me

and you, buying me, my next drink.