My heartbeat triangulates through pillow;
sounds wet, misleading–
pillow smells clean
against my tier;
of no motion,
Minerva gathers her wings from your
tongues your lotion for the feeling–
not the texture
upon portrayed skin,
while her poetry selfishly soothes her soul.
Her exoskeleton senses no genius from you;
fingertips caress the hilltop of once confident breast–
from the erosion of rusted, selfless button.
Wrinkle her brain;
treat her anti-social with
moisturize the familiar
as anti-fat collapses on herself.
Mortality tastes like ambrosia
aged to winter’s torment;
“It’s all in the stems–
comfort in plain,”
seedless and crying,
as her heartbeat falls into context–
wet and misleading…