my hair is a long, cradling memory. slavering the head to half-something, whole wanting, but a huge miss, but a small knowing. i hunch my back walking around it, walking around the luckless, walking around with numbing. the hope grows more ravening than i am, for i cannot be at loss' arms again. i refuse to cut it, the colors around it i wanted to see. i refuse to be at loss' arms again.
