Arms between the Author & Two People

Their arms lay limp, clutching the arms of the sofa - the one that's the size of a canoe. Just like that they sail as its oars, taking the only seemingly live creature within the white walls through crowds of rock and dirt - an ocean, if you will. Somebody's honking. There's that red light again- the one that they see every night; circling within their eyes as a firm portion of its clockwork. They stare into the tail-lamps of cars blinking ahead. Sometimes they try even to touch them - extending their temporarily mobile arms; swaying back and forth through words that persist within these waters as curious feet digging into beach sand. A heavy breath makes its way out of their mouths. It has risen from within the gullet of their throats, deciding to stay a while in its warm, uncomfortable embrace. "Don't stay up too late" she says. It's the younger one, the one who is afraid. She says this to the other two, swirling large glasses of wine between their unusually long-boned fingers. They have grown accustomed to her words. The letters hover somewhere, mingled in-between the backdrop of their intoxicants and intoxication. She comforts them both; laying an arm over each set of brows, both of the same shape. The eldest one is distant. She lives nestled within the vision of the other two. There is a blanket that she keeps with her when in this vision. It is white…or…red? It's difficult to say, since she herself doesn't know. There is always ink raining down her arms, meshing itself with the red wine…or was it white? She cups her palms into cloud-basins; holding onto drizzles that lick her cheek. She does not leave her sister - the one in the middle. She remains as a blind light of her vision, as well as a part of it. The girl in the middle wears rings on her long fingers to look like her elder sister. She doesn't converse, but wishes to. She walks with large sleeves draped over her arms to glance at her sister in the glass, or behind the tongue of a spoon. The red lights in the rain have been whispering. Their dew coalesces with droplets tracing the spines of hundreds of black umbrellas stepping in and out of long-boned fingers. They look down at their own hands, glancing over the sheath of their arms. They stitch these together almost as handcuffs. They step onto the sofa, dripping wine over its leather folds one last time.