Somehow reading about hair follicles
isn’t as interesting as thinking about you;
the words are black on this white page
and the inverse of you and me blocks the progression
of paper to eye to brain,
and all I see is what you would feel like against me
curled up in a bed that belongs to neither of us.
It makes sense I suppose,
I’m reading about terminal differentiation,
isn’t that what you and I had?
An influx of hormones that led to some permanent changes
in the texture of my soul,
so that no matter how many times I uprooted you,
plucked you, waxed you,
burned you, electrocuted you,
you grew back,
sometimes fast, sometimes a bit delayed,
sometimes thicker, sometimes soft and unnoticeable,
still always there, always present.
They say you’re born with all the hair follicles you could possibly have,
does this mean I was born for you?
I was born to complete the cycle of birth and reincarnation,
breaking through skin only to be cut down again,
while you nourished my roots with your sweet sweet words,
making sure that I remained healthy and alive,
rooted in you, but not so much intact.
I wonder how I would score your growth on women;
hirsute, her suit, your suit on her floor.
Somehow reading about hair follicles
isn’t as interesting as thinking about you,
but it doesn’t make my heart hurt nearly as much
as thoughts of you are wont to do.
