Stray Hair

Stray Hair

I am close enough for your inspection,
but not quite enough for you.
Though I see every nerve pulse in your face and neck,
you still can't see enough of my face to your liking.
I like that you want  more of it.
Your voice is calm but large pupils call your bluff.
I feel like I am swimming in dark chocolate.
No longer hearing background music,
the blood flows to my vitals rapidly.
I love the hands but not now.
They take me away from the eyes,
eyes that probe deeper than any digits.
There is no more room for intensity,
this has become the do-or-die moment.
You reach for my face and brush away a stray hair,
and then I see it,
the miniscule evidence of self-loathing.
I close my eyes and breathe deep to focus.
When I open them all of it is gone as if it was a dream.
Hours later in front of a soul-mirror; I cut my bangs,
and to the floor falls the stray hair.

by Kimarie Manhart-Freeman