Crimson blushed across her lips,
hands thrust upon her hips,
‘How old you think?’ she quests.
’27.’ you hazard a guess.
Grinning, she pushes your arm,
a friendly shove that may or may not
be an alarm to love.
More of a stroke, you swiftly think
knocking back another drink,
feeling her imprint against your shirt,
she winks, boss-blousy and pert.
Choking back thoughts of any sin,
all of you abandon any hope,
for she will gently stroke
and the fingers frantic Google home,
working the skin, stroking the skin,
for suddenly you are far and away alone.
At the bar, she waits and so coy,
but you feel her gaze, like a boy
who discreetly aspects his teacher
and you wish you could somehow reach her.
And when she lighthouse flashes her smile
you remember warning hymns of falling
because her eyes are calling, calling, calling.