I was on the table when a strand of your hair came calling. I could see you in the kitchen, your face at once a storm and a breeze.
I curled the single strand of loving you into imagined shapes and spoke to it about fascinating tales. As it played on my fingers, I could hear the music from its silent songs.
I had half the heart to carry it with me home and hide it in a book marked you. It smelt like July Flowers. It smelt so much of you.