Emergency Exit Hallway Sex

Me and her in the room that's shaped like a shoebox,
dark as oil normally.

But this night particularly the emergency exit sign with the man shuffling
urinated a diluted yellow glow up and down the walls
of our dirty, silent, secret hideaway.

Trapped by will in the sleepy locked hallway
Filled in like a pillow with stillness and the buzz
Buzz so calm of the shuffling man on the sign
in the corner of the mouldy white ceiling
while I smelt the grey carpeted floor.

The xanthous buzz was broken softly
by the fabric scuffle and occasional stifled moan:
the sound of rhythmic osculating.
She and I kissed in secret.

Chit-chats and loud flirts strolled passed the fire-exit that night.
Some hung about and played dares.
But behind the green eye of the emergency exodus at the top of the staircase
she and I lay,
on the floor.

Padded from reality. Panned out in
that little clandestine hall that hides behind the fire exit
on the other side.

This was not a romantic time however.
The flush from the sign was sickly,
and the air wasn't choked with Al Green lavender adulation,
but rather the sound of her moans, and mine
as we rolled. Quivering. Palpitating.

Testing. Not a word spoken
In our newly-invented personal dialect
of finger-tip articulation
and panting.

For hours that night her and I lay
and swam in inertia.
In the pale orange juice glow.
Making our sounds
touching our places
and doing our thing.

Like the buildings beating heart
nestled in that neglected corridor
tainting the air with sweat and hot breath.

Me and her in the room that's shaped like a shoebox
dark as oil normally.

We set it aflame that night, the grease bubbling to our groaned tongue-kisses
and vaporising our clothes bundled sporadically on the floor.

She and I left hand in hand, a cremated corridor behind us.