Picking your hairs from a white marble floor

My fingers tremble
I am not used to this.
I wish I could use my lips
To pick them all.

Every bit of you
Smells so much like you.
Even this little lock of hair
As it frolics on this floor
Smells of your Shampoo
And is so full of you.

And as I try to hold them
A small draught of your wild wilderness catches a wind
And they go sliding through my fingers
On to the floor, again
To be courted and loved and longed
Until finally coiled and entwined
Off they come with me
Into my forever times.

Also appeared in Muse India

2 comments:

  1. Awe.. I once felt this way, I hope to again... xox

    Really nice poem xox

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