Your hair changed with the seasons, falling
straight with the scent of ammonia and
the tangles teased each morning in your
pointless set of rituals. Those days
it happened to be red, but never mind –
Spring was on its way.
It was days after the operation –
I traced the stitches where I’d kissed,
and began to beg to be let in. You
barely twitched the sheets aside, and
tried your hardest not to move your head
or make any kind of sound.