Sink

What will be better than this bliss? The instant aaahh of dissolved tension, muscle giving into hot water. But, this will be a dry bath, bitter-tongued. Smoke and skin will lay heavy on the rug, our listless bodies sprawled out like starfish. We are apathy without the misery, we are ability without obligation. The room will be painted peach champagne and candle-lit. We will liberate electric symphonies with harmlessness. No. 9 will play for the empty space in our heads. Your crowded lashes will begin to stick together, like us, close and knotted. Each symphonic beauty will conjure up its own illusive space, its own imagined drama. It will be magical: we’ll be two girls, the ones giggling under the table drinking Californian wine, ripping up our bridesmaids dresses, heels off hours ago. We will confess that we always wanted an environment where we could be a little brutal. Pale ribbons will choke the dark, wet trees, spiraling around, out of place, sprouting tiny legs. We laugh the most when we’re serious. We will be homecoming queen, dollhouse molasses, dusted cheekbones, white feather. What is better than this? Not thinking about it. Published September 5th, 2019 on Expat Press.