the walls are faded with dreams she could never quite let go
her bed sprawled with pale limbs and whispers in the dark
sodium stains on her pillow-she flips it over, a blank slate
echoes rattle in the cavernous space between costal grooves
she ignores it in favor of the quadratic curve of her stomach
a concave dip where mathematical precision manifests form high-order derivatives and caloric intake
her phone trembles on the bedside table
there are seventeen messages from a man whose hands know her better than the shape of her name in his mouth
she cannot predict his actions-equations cannot hold him like arms can
instead she stares at the ceiling that holds no answers
her lips roll through numbers
(1 : apple, 1 : cube of cheese, 3 : brussel sprouts)
as she counts herself to sleep
Ren Martinez 