We are in assembly. Voices intermingle with deep jazz that drips from speakers stationed all around the house. Something beneath my sternum vibrates silently. The lights are colder than I know you’d prefer. 

But I’ve got candles 

at home, 

with molten wax that oozes

down far beyond 

the little sphere of gleaming honeycomb.

We become shoved 

together – and, not unwillingly, 

we give in. Our limbs loosely 

swinging 

       in small ellipses. 

The bone of my hip 

jerks to the right, 

the way your thumb flicks hastily

once or twice over the familiar ridges 

of a lighter.

Your body reflects mine: you twist yourself. 

But the faux leather fabric of my pant 

contours your bare thigh.