This morning,
I pulled a flaming string
Of ***** ruby tinted hair
From the inside of a sock on my floor,
And in the shower,
I found a single thread
Of burning, stranded follicle
Wrapped around the drain's grate,
Which struck me as odd,
Because you've never step foot
In my shower (as much as I might have wished),
You've never even set foot in
That bathroom at all,
It was always too ***** to touch your porcelin skin,
To by seen by your eyes or feel your judgement,
But even so,
I still find your hair everywhere.
This morning,
I put on a shirt,
One that you said held me half as nice
As you ever could,
And I thought of your words
And I thought of your gentle touch as I plucked
A lingering fiber of a lost flame flicker
From the breast of my attire,
And another wriggling yarn undone
Soaked in the end of a sunset
From the interior of my ripped jeans pocket
That still embedded the whisper of your perfume,
Your hair was absolutely everywhere.
This morning,
I stumbled into my car
And sulked in the sun
As a hair of yours relaxed
Among the dust of dashboard features,
And the sight of it
Prompted my mind to wake,
My hand to shift into gear,
And my tired legs to throttle the gas.
This morning,
The cars and trees and blank-slated faces
Hazed together in a fuse of
Gray and brown and all the other ugly colors,
The colors of dead things,
Which must have been why
I drove to the cemetery.
The gates, rusted and lonesome,
Creaked a "hello",
And the ground was frosty
To my arrival.
This morning,
I found a hair of yours
Draped over the head of a stone,
And that struck me as utterly odd
Since you've never been here before now,
And this morning at work,
My pants were covered in dirt
From kneeling before you as the sun came up,
But I didn't care,
I had to come see you
And ask you to keep
Your ******* hair to yourself.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 6:04 PM UTC
This morning,
I pulled a flaming string
Of ***** ruby tinted hair
From the inside of a sock on my floor,
And in the shower,
I found a single thread
Of burning, stranded follicle
Wrapped around the drain's grate,
Which struck me as odd,
Because you've never step foot
In my shower (as much as I might have wished),
You've never even set foot in
That bathroom at all,
It was always too ***** to touch your porcelin skin,
To by seen by your eyes or feel your judgement,
But even so,
I still find your hair everywhere.
This morning,
I put on a shirt,
One that you said held me half as nice
As you ever could,
And I thought of your words
And I thought of your gentle touch as I plucked
A lingering fiber of a lost flame flicker
From the breast of my attire,
And another wriggling yarn undone
Soaked in the end of a sunset
From the interior of my ripped jeans pocket
That still embedded the whisper of your perfume,
Your hair was absolutely everywhere.
This morning,
I stumbled into my car
And sulked in the sun
As a hair of yours relaxed
Among the dust of dashboard features,
And the sight of it
Prompted my mind to wake,
My hand to shift into gear,
And my tired legs to throttle the gas.
This morning,
The cars and trees and blank-slated faces
Hazed together in a fuse of
Gray and brown and all the other ugly colors,
The colors of dead things,
Which must have been why
I drove to the cemetery.
The gates, rusted and lonesome,
Creaked a "hello",
And the ground was frosty
To my arrival.
This morning,
I found a hair of yours
Draped over the head of a stone,
And that struck me as utterly odd
Since you've never been here before now,
And this morning at work,
My pants were covered in dirt
From kneeling before you as the sun came up,
But I didn't care,
I had to come see you
And ask you to keep
Your ******* hair to yourself.
