Lexi Perry

Tonight, we are 
temporarily permanently 
the Long Island Sound 
        	 of pretending. 
The hotel’s plastic orchids
    	 will never die. 
Your last night’s remnants of
bourbon cologne 
        	make me eagerly nervous. 
We eat overcooked steak 
         	and blush from the Merlot.
Even the ugly chambers 
of your heart are gorgeous 
and patient 
        	at measuring 
                      	the slowness. 
In this new universe, 
these mannequins of us 
          	will cease to exist. 
We’ll replicate 
          	at home, someday 
where we’ll waltz to Sinatra and
take drunken February strolls to
        	         assuage– 
the effervescent taste 
of this new universe, 
          	where everything escapes
except heat, light, 
and the hunger for more time.