When your hair fell out it was in soft wisps.
Had you been a child, we would have saved it in a pink envelope
with your name across the top.
“Her first haircut”.
But it was angry in your hand.
It fell away like dust.
All the effort to push it back from your eyes,
was wasted in those last moments at that diner.
You read the menu aloud in an accent borrowed
from your french teacher.
The people at the next table listened to our conversation
about dried leaves, and cotton candy.
They laughed when we did.
When the waitress came over we shook our heads,
but stayed anyway.
Everyone figured we had time.
Nobody knew but us.
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