My mum thinks I am her son.
My sister thinks I am her brother.
My step-dad thinks I am his rival.
My friends think I am a nice guy.
My personality thinks I am a story it is telling itself.
My consciousness dreams I am the form it experiences and animates.
But,
They see only the shape of my mustache,
without knowing the number of its hairs.
Even if they tried to count them,
all their imaginary numbers all together
could not measure into a name
the utter simplicity of my infinity,
even though it’s right under their noses!