We meander in the evening weeds. They grow spindly and hairy with dark, and I grow mangled animal instincts. Every sound makes me skittish, makes my heartbeats twin and tangle. You step evenly beside me bearing animal breath and the threat of alphabets. I can't reconcile your combination; I'm preoccupied with scents my ancestors forgot how to smell. Please don't mention my name and send it into the air advertising our pink fragility. And if you shift quickly, my creature leanings can't examine you just as you are — silent, almost still, unshaved, unaware. If you look me in the eyes, start a recitation, or employ technology, I don't know what I'll do. Run to the weeds. Pounce. I certainly won't start up talking, not in this failing light.