2002-11-12 - 7:16 p.m.
The fingers you ran through my hair...
All those nights
with the music playing softly in the background,
Our lips, swollen and bruised...
Were tainted with something
I could never put my own finger on.
You would brush out the tangles from the top of my head
To the small of my back,
Patient, as if this was the only thing you could do
To work US out, somehow.
As I slept I could feel you pushing the tendrils
From my eyes
As you tried to discern what my eyes were seeing
beneath the night,
trying to get to the part of me
I couldn’t give you.
I imagine my hair, the long unbridled threads of it,
Were a lot like us;
Peaceful to look at,
Wild to imagine
and a little unhealthy toward the ends.
That day, when the wildflowers never bloomed
And I realized I would never see spring come
that we would always be locked in the hands
which was nice...
but everyone needs a spring,
and I told her to cut my hair
and then I told her to cut more
until there was only a small part of your memory
within the web,
until my hair no longer fell into my face
so you would have nothing left to push away.|
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