Your fine blond hair
falls on the back of my hand
like splinters of light
or sand bleached by two summers' sun
or specks of gold glitter.
As I tilt your head
back towards my chest
the trimmings slip
from my wrist to the floor
to be swept away.
In shifting your familiar weight
on my knees,
a tiny strand finds its way to my mouth;
I push it to my lips
and lick it to my thumb.
Depending on how I look at it,
this residual shard
is a selfish “I,” a hurried dash –
the first stroke of a kiss.
(First published in ESME, 27 December 2017.)
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