When I'm sipping a drink at the bar,
you walk in the door,
trailing red satin in your wake,
like smoke from a bloodied cigarette.

I'm not supposed to like you,
talk to you,
trust you,
but I do anyway;
Your smile, as sharp as it is,
cuts me down to size and makes me kneel,
and already I know --

You're trouble.

Our conversation is barren, course, murmured;
we say more with our eyes than with our lips,
which should tell me to get away,
run away,
but I don't go. You ask me to stay.

We talk about cars and family,
what we do for a living,
in reality
circling each other like trained fighters,
and then you ask me.

You ask me...

It's a tricky question, isn't it?
We laugh about it, softly, almost snidely,
but the question hangs indelible in the air;
we don't forget it.

Later, while we're pinning each other to cotton sheets,
while we're biting each other with ivory teeth,
we'll remember it again and then you'll ask me --

What do I want?

Actions speak louder than words;
I'm already burning your soul with mine.