She squirms under his chest,
sweaty, hairy, and prickly.
He grunts and coughs,
spit landing on her cheek
mixing with salt and grease.
Plop, plap, tap.
His eyes are half-closed,
a tick and twitch distracting;
his mouth slack and open,
drool spills from the side
travels down his chin
lands on her breast.
Slap, smack, slam.
She closes her eyes,
stops breathing the same air
into which he exhales
Eau de Whiskey.
She bites her lip, teeth sinking into
swollen flesh.
He takes it as a green light,
(she is the one turning green)
But she is flashing red
Flushing pink and purple.
There is no passion.
There is no lust.
There are no fireworks
Where nothing is being sparked.
