When I found her hair in the shower the first time,
my knees bent as if she left me a love poem.
I wrapped my hand around it,
like I would never let her go.
I watched another make its way down the drain
and realized I was holding it like
I understood she would probably go.
Knuckles white-red from grasping so tight,
her hair-poem made fists for loving.
I loved her before
I kissed her. Which is the hardest way to fall.
All heart. The way a balloon keeps filling until
it bursts. The way a robin’s egg falls out of the nest
just before it births flight. I swallow down the yellow
yoke of her, lick her words like frosting from my face.
One little hair and I am folded naked in the tub,
knees to my chest, water drowning my grin–
wondering if she understands how brilliantly she feels
or how beautifully she knows. I curl around her questions as if
the desperation behind questions have been answers the whole time.