Gray hair.
From the top of my head,
It came spiraling down.
I knew it was not mine.
My hair has been dyed jet black,
To compliment the fairness of my features.
But not to cover any lingering grays.
I am in the prime of my years.
And although some do get gray at my age,
I knew it was not mine.
It had the feel of plastic.
Almost as though it had fell off the head
Of a barbie doll from my more tender years.
It was gray in the shadows.
But under the light it was almost blond
Or yellow even.
I have never had a hair on my head that resembled those colors.
A further testament that it was not mine.
Several times since the year of her death
I have found a long gray hair wound about on my pillow.
A strand longer than mine which is shoulder length,
A strand just like her own.
Before death took her away from me.
Gray hair.
From the top of her head
Down to her back.
It came falling down,
It was not mine.
I took us to be inseperable.
I believed our thoughts to be one.
My sinful thoughts of adolescence.
I perceived her to read and ridicule.
By the light of day until it’s disapperance from the sky above.
No matter how close I thought we were
I was on the know
That her hair was not my own.
Gray hair.
Wet with shampoo and wrapped up in a towel
Then combed and brushed neatly, into a bun.
Perhaps it is a sign from her that we can never be apart
From one another.
Perhaps it is my own.
Perhaps I am making something of a nothing
Perhaps it is my own.
But deep inside my very soul
I know it’s not my own.