You step in,
past the black-coated bouncers,
and out of the rain
that beads on your leather jacket,
spills through your hair
onto pale skin.

I want to taste the rain on your lips,
but I don't want you to know that.

Instead I play it cool
(I think),
pretend I didn't notice you walk in,
pretend I haven't missed you since the last time,
pretend you're not the reason I came back again.

Across the room,
with dark eyes
and a fresh tattoo
I just ache to lick,
everything around you
diminishes,
like you've turned a dimmer switch right down.
A spotlight picks out
only you.

Two cigarettes in my mouth.
I light them both,
pass one to you:
the nearest I'll get to kissing you tonight.

We're alone for a moment,
jostled by bodies
less substantial
than the smoke you exhale,
with Hetfield telling me
'nothing else matters'� and me
wanting desperately
to believe him,
to believe you.

You undo me with questions
I can't find answers to.
I try to act coy,
hope the heavy metal bass
drowns out my heart's rapid stutter,
as I fight to stand,
forget to breathe.

Then you're gone again,
and all that's left
is last orders
and the taxi ride home,
the hangover of what might have been.

One night
I'll have the answers that you want.
One night,
I'll taste the rain on your lips.

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