An Emotional Hangover

My hair was sticking up the first time I met you.
You thought it was funny,
I thought it was dorky,
so you waved your hand over my alfalfa hairs.
Ok, so it's not that bad, it's kinda cool,
Only if I had meant it.
(I wonder what she would think if she knew
that my hair probably got messed up while I
was riding my TEXAS-sized roach...)
I smile, I snicker, trying to hide the Texan in me.
She smiles and looks at the ground.

(So, could you please leave? I'm afraid.) I'm faltering

The first time I met you I was passionately cold.
Ironically hypocritical. New and old.
How can we understand and know so little?
So, we reminisced the 1st time I met you.

I say, sometimes the gel doesn't keep it down.
- Do you ever use hairspray?
Yea, after the gel I spray it down.
- Chemical factory, huh?
Yea.
- Why do you cut it short?
It's about freedom, like flying with the windows down.
- But that makes your hair stand up.
Like the machine that cooperates in freedom, slaves in our own freedom.
why are you here?
A silent secret that you wrote about before I met you.

(She's afraid of roaches in my pantry, or the lack there of in my closet)

But you're here, and we look for resemblance.
And she's not here, we look for her identity.
She's a small root that sustains many of my branches.
She's a large root that doesn't grow for you anymore.
I'm going to put my hair down.
- Ok.
(I wonder what she thinks about the back of my neck?)
- (how trivial...)

[to fill our depths, to bind our wounds]

1998 february 20