Must Be Unstable to Enter

I.
You are such peace.
All moth wings and
plastic bags.
Lift, float.
You land on the elbow
of this tight-lipped day
and make it smile.


I imagine your brain
is like sea waves
and pasture hips.
What do you call
the colors?
Cerulean? Larva?

Something as fluid
as birth and tide.
Let me see in there.

II.

You are so sweet to see
the blank stare on my face
and think I am tranquility.
My brain is a disco.
With strobe lights and people
dancing in clothes they have
no business wearing.
There is a poorly written
chorus that repeats over and over.
The beat is catchy but a bad
imitation of sex,
Thrust, pull back.
and if you hang out long enough
you'll start to think it's all so profound.
Best just pick a booth,
sip on your drink,
and remember that none of it
is to be taken seriously.

III.

He's learned to skip tracks.
He likes the one with the
bed sheet piano and synthetic
ocean sounds, a woman's voice
falling like kisses.
I like it too. But I can only hear it
so many times before I crave
the survival anthem, or the industrial
bass beat that everyone thinks
is so hard to dance to.

© lauren zuniga