With two fingers you can speak more inside me than thousands of words at the bar,
shout me louder than screeching which drink you want to buy for me,
and you can take your time with your tongue, saving breath for between my legs
instead of hot with beer on my nose.
With your weight between my legs I shout louder than responding my drink,
cry louder and more satisfied by every grinding roll of abs and thighs.
Was it the drinks or the way your hard hand on my back guided me through the crowd?