Sweet and bitter like an orange rind is your question, as is my response to my tongue.
"Can we dance like the birds around each other, spinning?"
You wrap my fingers around your neck, and let the flavors of the lights sink in as they hit the floor.

"Can you feel the sweetness of my hair flowin' like honey, and the added spice of the ginger boy who's playin' for his spirit, not money?"

You grasp my dress of dahlia,
and we make our soulful revolutions across the room, out the door, and into the street.
Strangers stare, but we pay no attention, for all our concentration is on the journey of our figures, searching for a brand new rhythm.