November

A single thread stares back at me,
a line of crimson practically glaring,
against the brilliant white of the wall behind.
A single drip of blood alone on a sheet of ice.

For all I see that it is alone—
I know there are more in the dark abyss.
That dark hole where forgotten dreams go,
Washed away in the warm morning current.

I don't know how long that piece of red,
has graced its presence among these walls,
Or when, for that matter,
It left me.

I reach forward,
My fingers pick it up in that difficult way,
that one plucks a hair from moisture soaked walls,
And frown as it somehow twirls itself around four fingers,
instead of just the two I used to pick at it.

I narrow my eyes as it twists and weaves,
a piece of yarn in a weaver's loom,
dancing in and out of sight,
among the other flesh colored players.
It isn't alone,
I can tell by the way the water rises—
higher and higher though the drain isn't closed.

Most would worry that they're going bald.
Though I couldn’t care less either way.

Because if I find one more fucking hair,
I'm cutting it all off.