In the evening,
your hair.
'I don't know how to braid,' I'd say
because my own has been short
for a long while now
What response do I receive?
Hands entangled
in wavy silk
Fingertips on
delicate scalp.
Maybe there is a fire going
or maybe we are under electrical light.
'Can you grow it out longer?'
I might ask
and receive a response
What response do I receive?
If we grow closer,
who is to know
as the shadows grow longer
and the night goes by
Maybe we are one,
Maybe we are two,
three,
four
All tangled up
dark brown, maybe black,
wavy and soft
short and long and short and long
alone,
not really alone.
Wefts of you and me
me and you
braids that interlock
one lock of hair
'Do you know how to braid?'
I want to ask
because you have so much more than me
it pools like water in my hands
and I want to make it real
make it definite
in my own way-
clumsy, unrefined, failing to convey
the weight of you in my hands.