You claim, you still don’t know me,
As music bends around the bar,
Your hands rests beneath your smile,
That sits seductively absorbing time.
I stay hid behind my pint glass,
With hunched shoulders and battered lungs.
Hands bending beer mats,
Knowing you see straight through my smokescreen.
We drink more, and dress for pleasure,
Dance like fools to reggae tunes
Kiss on drunken benches,
Our senses burst in the blinded sky.
You say again, ‘come on I still don’t know you.’
I laugh, legs staggering, our fingers intertwined.
‘Two years have almost past, weekends of quixotic debauchery aside,
I just enjoy spending time with you’.
But what I don’t say is what I mean,
Like how my eyes linger on your neck line,
When you turn your head to the side.
So I look at my fingers, and roll another cig,
Beat back those bounds of honesty,
Allowing true thoughts to slip and slide away,
And stutter sounds dressed for silence