A splash of sherry later, and you
are wet with the ghost of our tongues.
Your hands move around like butterflies
and flit and slit through the air,
slashing it into a cool breeze that
freezes droplets of sweat on my mouth.
You lick your fingers and touch them to the
salt around the rim of your glass,
pull them to your lips, and smile wide
like a demon, red with flickering orange.
With shaking hands, I reach for the
dark bottle and refill your glass.