Most nights
I stay out all night
because I crave to be
free and unserious
especially on top of
a sweaty elevated surface
where I get off on
letting my tongue twirl
inside the mustache man’s mouth

I lose it when he bites into me
I’m the fleshy blood orange
satisfying his every craving
juices trickling
pulpy hands palpitating
Sucking on sticky fingers
my citrus scent lingers
as my favorite song comes on
The night is true blue
We’re fucking around
We’re falling in love

I can’t go home
because there must be another bar open
and if there isn’t
I’ll open up the coquette club
down danish cobble stone streets
I’ll convene the wonderful and weird
and we’ll dance ourselves clean
Then maybe I’ll get home by 07:30
or call the mustache man
and tell him to come meet me
around the corner where
he squeezed orange juice
with his bare hands

We’re sponges
soaking in each other’s chaos
absorbing the permanent stains
muddled in each other’s life stories
Our minds and bodies
become filthy and wet
so we decide to jump naked
into the depths of the canal
because the moment is so right,
we’re not afraid to dive in,
and when’s the next time
we’ll be in Copenhagen?

We drink the sunrise for breakfast
as people in suits
make their morning commute
and we get awfully sick
because we swam in undesignated waters.
The next two days bed ridden
are an ambrosial fever dream
and the only thing my mustache can eat
is fresh orange juice.