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

with you,

that we would always be locked in the hands

of winter...

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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