Margarita (con Marracash)

The phone rings at three in the morning, and the air feels sticky with unspoken words. The words slide across the screen like fingers tracing the glass of a margarita. Everything looks easy – a flower in your fingers, music, laughter – but hidden within this ease is a rift that has long been brewing. It seems love just went out for some air and got lost somewhere between the dance floor and Siri. He's philosophizing about monogamy, she's smiling and taking a sip. Someone clearly won this game, but they're unlikely to be happy. The world sparkles as if everything is under control, even tho a fever is raging beneath my skin, a heat that even granite can't shield me from. And while one is hugging the bed instead of a body, the other is pretending they simply forgot to answer the call.