Sorella misses the hot water.
pulsing beads on back,
fire slipping down throat.
scorching beat playing on fingers spread wide, wide, wide for the receiving,
the clean burn dancing dark like demons on all hallow’s eve.
Sorella misses the cold water.
cubes of paralyzed molecules clinking about,
making a tasty ruckus & giving off steam a-plenty
turning skin pink like its literal polar opposite -
the same, but different.
Sorella misses the water.
those Above don’t realize that their damn search for delicious ended years ago -
the answer resides within the last chapter.
it’s temperature, temperature!
liquid & temperature.
Sorella sighs.
Sorella longs.
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