Dating, none.

it’s exhausting, primal
scampish even, denotes me
in such ways, paperbag poke 3 holes
not precisely to see, but to breathe

seeing is overrated
fortunately; i can hear you
and the expansion of your lungs
pectoral ideologies of something worn


dingo of a secret, unlocks me
tweaking large sums of moments
you don’t -even know five things about me
except that you wake me up, confuse me
manufacturing your own conclusions to fit mine
usually i count to six, it’s grotesque to stay at odd numbers
were you born quietly? among your shoes, does life rehearse itself?
questions, many, wanted, unwanted, avoiding me like cement, a hardening
i exist, i wear stamps of butterflies, used, unused, no less than your common light