I could write a million poems about your hair.

 

when it’s just been cut,

sharp and short,

and looks just like my little brothers’

when my mother used to cut their hair on the front lawn

in the summer twilight,

a few lightning bugs beginning their dance.

 

When it’s been too long in the semester

and paperstestsprojects

have been urgent,

when workstudysleep

has been on repeat,

and it grows out in shaggy curls,

and you thoughtlessly untangle it with

your long, tapered fingers feeling their way through.

 

and no matter the cut,

the way the sun glints off it like obsidian:

and it strikes my mind scrambled,

brain garbled,

fumbling for words,

for “hello”

for a functioning hand to wave

for anything besides,

“Do you know that you are a gorgeous man?”

Because I could write a million poems about your hair.