Each time I tell myself
I will be leaving you
part of myself as
though I want to take you
by surprise, want you
to discover me
again.

. I will never miss
these silver and dark strands
like a scrawled note
held by a magnet on a fridge,
others hidden among
cabbage roses on sofa cushions,
and on the pillowslip where
my hair spills in rivulets
you catch, fisting them,
looking down at my parting lips,
my half-closed eyelids fluttering.
In the morning I am gone. You
shower, and the water
streams, warm down your
long body, lathering, you find
a lingering reminder
wound around among your
dark curling hairs.
I tell myself
I will never miss
what I leave behind.