It’s a silent observation reflected in snake-streams chasing your fingers,
Washing Your Hair
Was I there? On your mind? Or am I dried and dusty already?
Am I mud cakes crumbling under shower heads,
devolving to dirty rivers at your feet, dark rivulets around your toes?
Your dirtiness slides from the skin,
rinses away the places I’ve been.
Now we’ll see
what’s really underneath –
pure skin? Or…?
We could have been magnificent.
And we could have been