The sounds of Cuba moved our feet to twists and turns into the bedroom
we screwed like orange juice and vodka all over the dance floor
and rearranged the crowd to fit our elite gourmet footwork
I grabbed the bell of your dress
and haunted your eyes with the lust of my moving decisions
I spoke to the sounds your father warned you about
We isolated in the corner of the oak floor
warping the wood with moves that made feet jealous
spending time flying
Finishing the night
you realized you spent little time in the air
and more of the time in your head
thinking about how great I danced
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