Fingers Not Mine

A clump falls—

hair spun like dead grass, brittle and loose.

She sits silent, the hairdresser’s scissors

snipping rhythm that no one owns.

I watch strands gather in porcelain, cold,

a sudden pile of winter leaves

no one rakes away.

Her fingers pass over short uneven stubble,

a tactile question unanswered,

weight shifting in the sink.

Not mine.

Not mine to grasp, to hold,

just watching the ends curl like secrets

we don’t share.