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,



All tangled up

dark brown, maybe black,

wavy and soft

short and long and short and long


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.