Just This Strand

After the shower, the steam still in the air,

I saw it, dark against the white tile wall.

A single strand of hair, mine, caught there,

a perfect, small, wet coil, about to fall.

It was a question mark, or maybe just

a tiny snake, unmoving, gleaming still.

So separate from my head, a fine, thin dust

of what I am, defying my own will.

It felt like finding a dropped button

from a shirt I still wear, but couldn't place.

A sudden, quiet weight, unseen, forgotten,

then startlingly present, in this empty space.

And I just looked at it, this part of me

that broke away, and stuck. So simply there.