Sink – Eris Mohr

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.