Belle is cold –

not hearted –

just physically

although,

if not for the 1s & 0s

that dictate her every move

she would be no more loving than a rolling pin

or a house key

it’s funny

you never thought you’d be oiling your cat

or any animal for that matter

but you’ve grown accustomed to it;

when she doesn’t require oiling,

her footsteps are small

clicks against the linoleum

when she needs oiling,

her whole body squeaks as

it turns corners

and chatters as

she walks

you love watching Belle eat,

her artificial tongue is only so sticky;

it dips into the bowl

and plucks out a single pellet

rolling her tongue back into her mouth

she tilts her head back

and lets the pellet fall down into her throat

after a faint clank she

tilts her head back down

and begins again

on summer nights

right before the heat fades

she curls up beside you

her (n)ice body

against yours

and you’re on the couch together

the negative space of this moment

speckled with the chirp of crickets

and the silver hum

of Belle’s vibrating vessel

and every second

of every day

is spent

waiting for this moment