You left a lock of your hair on the dresser this morning.
An ethereal curl, a whimsical puff of brown.
Other, even less substantial signs of you
fill this room, but none
have its passion.
You went out this bitter morning,
taking your worn leather jacket,
the tattered thing you love to wear
when you walk the streets to think.
I can see it now, enfolding
your shoulders in its soft touch.
I caress the lock of hair you left
with absent-minded affection.