“My hungry heart holds our secret getaways /
like the last snowflake of a winter day . . ”

It is a Wednesday night.
And I have a . . “girlfriend”.
So why am I downstairs by the back bar of Eighteenth Street Lounge,
seduced by sweat sheen and Shabba Ranks, engaging in synchronized waist-winding with my EX-girlfriend?

“Dem ah call us piraaaates / dem ah call us illegal broadcasters / just because we play what de people want . . ”

“Hiding in plain sight, /
your petite frame alights /
like a landing plane /
right into my flashing flame /
until you melt into candy rain . . ”

I always did love how petite she was. Just the right height for just a slight downward turn of my head to connect my lips to that little spot on her neck that always caused her dam to say “Damn it all.”

But we’re just dancing.

Right?

“I’ll score a dub /
to a dub score /
and rub your /
unmentionables /
on the dance floor /
until your closed-eye gasps /
be the stand-in for /
asking for more . . ”

So why are her eyes so closed and her sighs so open? Why are my hands underneath her clothes (which are soaking)?

“You’re making me . . lose my concept . . of people being around . . ” she semi-consciously half-panted and half-pleaded.

“Lose” her concept?

I never had one.

Not with her.

Am I losing my touch?

“Lovers on the precipice /
of decadent togetherness /
relish in setting it /
to the tune of Mega Banton /
and Born Jamerican records /
Ceasing /
Seckling /
Lights /
Camera /
‘Aaaaaaction . . . ‘ /

Terror /
Fabulous.”

https://soundcloud.com/brokeballer/senorita-samas-sensual-safehouse-thisisthepart-part-19-of-31