you

are not a tiny meticulous detail to be dissected

by my scalpel, over

you

my being cannot pulsate

with the power of detachment from those puerile, violently beating organs

i cannot control

you

infect me with diddly dumb joy,

and numb me, when your being breathes something bigger into,

mine

surging warm, orange life;

i

feel the painful twang of living, and

dopamine