Drunken Groping

Startling flimsy touches, tuned to the beat, dancing over your dress.
They are welcomed by the tequila, the blur, and the darkness.
And you ease into the moment as he brashly fumbles over your clothes.
The mind disappears and you find yourself alone, with only fingers and hands.

Her hands at your waist tugging at patterned fabric, softly like a child.
Their innocence reaching towards some sort of drunken sobriety.

Time starts to run quickly, or slowly, as his hands run against your skin.
Abandoning inhibition, you can embrace everything that is left.
Trying to hold on to the safety of neglect, you remember the light and the eyes.
But closing them you lose it, because it’s all forgiven or forgotten.

As she wraps your hair around her fingers you move closer. Finding each other
you place your hand in hers, sometimes forgetting the world.

Then you find your body pressed up against the wall
with your leg between his thighs, and his hand between yours. Accepting
as you incapably allow yourself to let go of innocence and constraint.
Because you’re both there touching, living, drunk.

You remember the lipstick on your lips, and on hers
and you wonder about the lipstick on his. Was it really yours?

He will sometimes whisper to your ear, speaking
of desire and weakness. You don’t listen, but feel
as his hands erase the words off your skin. And you let him
free you of the moment, free you of thought.