The Mustache!

What you might not notice

by reading these words

is that I have a 

mustache 

as I write them 

and this mustache persists 

even through

the length of this

sentence or this 

poem and then,

at night, 

underneath faint starlight

(or nights that aren't lit)

this mustache grows.

The length 

of my upper lip is comforted

by these unshorn face pores.

In its gauzy blanket

I find warmness.

My mustache, my honey.

The warm syrup of my

mustache is what I tongue

when I lick toward my nose.

The mustache grows! Alive!

And like thousands of bad movies

these pressures 

keep pressing.

The deep dreams they can't describe

in the mustache!