The hair is gone
I watch
as she chops it off
and it falls down the sides of my face
like a snowfall of brown
I try not to choke
as I remember the times
when you’d run your fingers
through them
and tell me they smelled of strawberries
and now,
my love,
your strawberries lay at my feet
rotten and dead.
I’m sorry.
I look back at my
reflection
“Dear, it’s all done.”
she whispers.
I wince slightly,
as my head reflects the light
shiny in it’s new landscape
bumps and endless stretches
of bald pavement
“I look like an egg.”
I joke,
she laughs,
but I see the tear.
Life is short,
I know,
trust me.
And so is my bucket list.
It reads thus:
‘Let happiness make you cry’
I want to
bubble over with laughter and
joy
so much so that the emotion
marries
my soul
and my tear-ducts
give their
blessing.
I want other things, too.
Time, firstly.
Time to spend with you
tracing
your spine
and laughing at your geeky
jokes.
I want time to create more memories
like the kind
when we spotted an owl during
a midnight swim
and the kind
where we lay entwined
indistinguishable as two separates
and smiled
into each others beings.
I also want,
selfishly,
a baby.
(she’d have your eyes, darling.)
A little token to leave you with.
Without this
to give you,
only one thought races through my head.
-Sweetheart,
when I’m gone,
will you forget me?-
And then,
when my moment of daydreaming
comes to an end,
after everything,
I think
of only one more thing,
my love,
your gentle, patient face
shadows under your eyes
as you held my hand
last week
so bravely
and now, the sound of your
tapping feet
from outside the room
as you wait to see your
egg-headed wife
and smile encouragingly
(as i know you will),
and I ask,
-Sweetheart,
when I’m gone,
will you forgive me?
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