I like your hair
resting on your shoulders
like the weight of the world is absent,
and when the gentle breeze blows,
it simply moves in its direction.
I like how messy it is--
there is some kind of order in it,
and in this world where solitude
is a friend or a foe,
you give order and colour,
just like your hair.
I envy the boy who first
brush your hair from your face
as you give in to love's first kiss,
or the gentleman who will see you comb it
after a midnight bath, from his bedside.
Or he, most of all, who will witness it turn to gray.
I'll always dream of you, and
your hair swaying by the breeze.
Thank you, for at least, this vivid imagery
is forever mine to keep.