hair

I love every hair on the top of your head,
the color of caramel mud in the Afghani steppes.
If I loved you any more, I would have to invent
more of you to love.
There is no space left for me to fill with my ardor,
with my passion, with my admiration and wonder.
Ah, but herein the troubles lie.
Not that my love will end, for it is far larger than
your entity, far larger than everything networked
to you in webs across the stars.
The more I love you, the more fear that grows
that you will leave and I will be left
holding a broken string,
my boat floating away down the river.

**ah, I crack myself up with this stuff. **

(unpublished poem files - who did I write this for????)

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