Fingers in your hair

I can glimpse my fingers through your hair,

They peep,

Like little hikers

Trying to reach the promised summit

Only to realize

That it was so much more

In their heads,

Than under their feet.


The little one is oft left out

While the rest play in the overgrown weeds of your infinite mind.

It’s the only one

That can feel the air,

And the harsh ends of your uncared for edges,

That have split like my fingers in your hair.


It tries,

To be as honest as the thumb,

That sometimes crushes your temples

In an attempt to coerce the stiffness

That stifles me.


To be as valiant as the first,

That finds itself on scant grounds,

And still runs across the ragged edges

Of a rapidly thinning countenance.


To be as secure as the middle,

Buried in the undergrowth

That promises depth,

By obscuring sight.


But not the third.

Ah no.

Not the paradoxical ring bearer,

That can feel both the abyss and the sparsity.

But in all it’s perception,

Can barely control it’s movement.

Moving as a mere after shadow

Of others and the leash.


No,

It’s the only one that’s free.

That is still more me,

Than you.

It neither belongs,

Nor rebels;

But is the silent bridge,

Between nothing and the harsh splits.


And then you move,

A little away,

A little toward,

And all my fingers are crushed under the weight of your head.

The complex dynamics of a relationship are impossibly uncertain. Love can sometimes live like its own monster inside you, glancing out at the most intimate moments, turning them into molten lava of unfamiliarity. And you're left wondering if you're ever going to be you again, or if there's some indelible force in love, that would crush you were you to feel it truly. Ah, to not comprehend, and yet feel the unknowns and the unfamiliars!

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