Long Tousled Hair
In her hands,
her hair curls round in
unfinished thoughts.
Tousled troubles long since forgotten
hang one under another
like knots in a string.
And, of course, she still smiles,
an emotional measure deflecting concern,
make-believe recollections often shown to be fine.
Then, as night carries on,
we stand in a circle knowing full well
tracing the lines with a tip of the coffee cup,
enforcing this lie with each sip of the dark.
Yes, we all have our faults,
God knows, they’ve been counted,
but mine, like notches on embittered wood,
have scarred, become separate,
left alone at the place where I chose, once, to carve them,
not carried like hers,
in that long tousled hair.
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