I don’t have time to meet the end,
I’m picking at my scalp
and wondering–
no, knowing,
you’ll never try to change it.
They call it pride.
You call it personality.
And I try at scabs and puss and stuff
to distract me
from never seeing you,
because your demons
had always danced and sung better
than me,
or anyone, really.
So…you are my dandruff.
Because my hair is your hair,
thin, soft, brown,
easily damaged by curls or fire.
Though I can recall the last time
you touched it,
and called me yours,
because the heathens are in,
fog and lights a spectacal,
and flying fountains
perhaps beauty…
which leaves me with scabs,
without you,
and dandruff.
Perhaps the years will make it soft.
Or rather, perhaps,
when it sinks in more
you are not immortal
and being old doesn’t wrap
about a pole
or perks up breasts,
and Days of Our Lives
stop shooting,
you’ll remember me,
the one who did what you said
not what you did,
and seek to nullify the regrets.
But I have yet to find
a potion or mix
to cure my scalp
of the itch.
But perhaps it’s for the best.
Author T.S. Lowe 