Molestache

Oh the greasy stringy bristles on your face.
They call to me.
Like candy calling a child.
Neatly trimmed and sometimes combed.
They deserve more.
More of me and you. More playgrounds.
More 1992 windowless vans.
Oops, I caught you looking, longing, but never belonging.
As you near, my fingers find my phone;
and while your stache, that magnificent furry patch,
hypnotically suffocates me,
I dial 9-1-1.