A single strand sharp and cold

A single strand, sharp and cold,

caught beneath the bathroom light,

a thread out of place, a sudden silver

against the dull brown of my life.

I stare too long, fingers fumbling

like a stranger’s hand across my scalp.

The bed holds the ghost of it too,

fallen, curled on faded sheets,

a quiet signal slipping in.

No fanfare, no warning,

just that sharp surprise

of something new breaking through

where the old skin used to be.