The Sharpness of Loss

Fingers drift over the jagged edge,

not quite a line but a tremor—

a raw patch where the blade missed kindness.

Mirror fogged by breath, hands damp with hesitation,

I trace the uneven temple, a stutter of skin and scalp.

That moment, barber’s shears in a dance

that wasn’t mine,

snip—control slipping into the chill air.

A clump caught on the floor,

like pieces of myself peeled away

and left behind in the fluorescent light.