Life, being a hoax, brought a bleached hair. It fell lightly from the cabinet: soft and expired, the dust of a stour stuck to my wrist and I felt quite annoyed—my forehead creasing in quotes on each end. I tried to straighten it out (and find your eye behind the strand) on the black countertop though I dropped the yellow ray, irrevocably, and you were like the fox severing her gaze from that of the tired fell-walker, irrevocably, when finally I forgot you. I could imagine your hair falling firm with no distant wind, no dial tone, & no stamps to confuse my forgetting.
Max Ridge is a writer based in New York City.