January 3rd. 1:01 AM. Apartment. Dark but warm with the windows closed.

 

Gl.

When I shack up, I shack up.

It’s better if you don’t notice time pass.

When my beard gets scratchy I take a long hard look:

 

You are disappearing around another abstract streetcorner;

I follow;

You turn, cock, blow me away—tornado through sensory leafpile.

 

Maybe I am not into shacking up after all