I am undone by your curls. You were
an email signature, a conglomerate of curt responses and
inadequate explanations that I pieced together
into something safely less than human. I never considered
your hair until it manifested before me
golden as the day was grey, as though it had
sucked the sun from the sky.
Yours is a mind of lines and tables, and yet
from it grew an unkempt narrative that wanders
and perplexes. You are talking about rules while I am
wrapping white knuckles around my gaze to haul it down
from your lush heights.
What if we what if I
store them here plunge my fingers
assign them there sink my face
how would that work?
how would it feel?