Your strands are not soft or kind
they're brittle and gasoline coated
your ends do not descend gracefully
they are chopped into straight lines and cut my
fingers each time I touch
but it is your hair that blows in the lightest winds that I want
I love the smell of the thin black daggers
that surround your pale face
the aroma consumes me and I need my fix
nothing could suit you better or worse
than that rough hair you caught me staring at mid April
and I know my fingers could never pull the thick wet locks
behind my ears
but it is one thing to desire
and another to possess
I am content with my brown honey touched strands of silk
black has never looked good on me anyways