It’s OK to brainwash me with your repetitive sound
That is how much I am infatuated with your slumbering heart
Resting in fetal position inside your model cove
There is a crooked nature to your kindness
A sugary glaze over your eyeballs that speaks to obsolete faith
It hurts to know that I may never have the opportunity to lick their slickness
It hurts to know that I may never have the opportunity to fan you with
Luscious green fronds
Before my face disappears
Into the produce aisle
Into the tunnel
Into the pathetic computer game from my youth
It hurts to know I may never have the opportunity to insert the needle
Into the eye
Of your convenient air pump
I need to be more economical in how I distribute my fingerprints
Around your wrinkled skin
Overthinking will dampen the party that celebrates
The existence of art and leisure
Indeed your masterful art exists
But the world will only know if they are sitting down
And paying attention
Grounded by the rice grains
Stuffed into their benevolent asses