Alex Thomas :: Anatomy of a Hook-Up
She’s got a cocaine tint to her tongue as she twists around and asks me to dance.
My stomach is a storm on the sea of Galilee and I down Jesus Christ in a shotglass ship of rum.
I’ve tasted enough sweat on lips in this poker town to feel when they’re all in, and when they just wanna fuck again before the headache sets in.
She’s got a body like a battle-ax. She’s got a body like a bass kick. She’s got a body like Beethoven’s fifth when you’re high on acid.
And she carves her hips into mine like she’s Michelangelo and I’m something holy.
Outside we chainsmoke bummed cigarettes and try not to fuck each other in the parking lot.
Her house, my house; the stairs— the chair— or the welcome mat?
We come at each other like we can’t be broken and love is the hangover of lust.
When we say “goodbye” it sounds like “get out” it looks like a drunk tattoo all sloppy around the edges but with the best intentions.
