I am no particular kind,
hinged in the retrospect of other movements.
Damaged, some may say, by the lack of my own peril.
I am left
in the evaporations –
where a bare foot meets a wooden floor,
peeling the press
of a child running into summer.
I am the hair
falling from your scalp, that convalescent
each day united
with a disappearing will.
a movement too close to say,
behind your eye,
and the need to stay silent – no charging wit,
I am falling down the rip of you,
unable to mop away.
There are no lines drawn,
no rhyme to measure with a kiss,
nor comb away with love -
a form diseased with instability.
My head is eaten by an obtuse Hell,
I do not quite know.
I grab and grab,
seeing something coming
from the corner of my eye – incomplete,
a fickle crush.