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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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