Remember those days when smoky fingers
broke themselves trying to part your dancing skirts,
Like cats in heat running through the tall grasses
On a windy afternoon.
I’d laugh, you’d laugh,
then you would lay flamenco lies on their foggy eyes.
But when the callers finally left,
and it was just you and me.
We’d share that couch
like two neo-post-grunge-modernists
making love in new, rebellious and special ways.
You told them all that you were a Latin ballerina
and I told them I liked Nirvana.