Prologue
I blink between magenta gusts,
half-drawn, half-remembered,
a smile loose in the paper’s wind.

Body I
Graphite murmurs: don’t finish me.
Magenta answers: I never do.
Each patch hums like a heartbeat under wet neon.
The white between us is breathing room,
a stage for unsaid oinks.
I tilt forward; the edge dissolves;
somewhere, a hand forgets its purpose.

Body II
I am less animal than echo,
a rhythm of soft lightning and cheek.
Your stare maps the laughter’s orbit—
round once, then again,
until the snout becomes a small horizon.
Call it joy, call it graphite memory;
it all smudges the same.

DADA-Break
oink oink OINK—
ink ink OINK—
(oi…nk…)

Closing
I stay mid-laugh so tomorrow can start mid-breath.
When you lift the pen, I’ll exhale the rest of my color—
and we’ll call it morning in α-72.