A soft green lobe of soap knows the pattern of emptiness. It sculpts your body with temporary cells and manufacture honeycombs abalone tinted chambers. Time sucks on it like candy. Its erosion unfolds with care as if remembering how rivers move or how it was formed. In the apocalypse, I would devour this sweet lump. It would cleanse my organs. You would rub me against you to get some of its scent. I would breath bubbles, the pattern of emptiness.