I lay my head in your lap
while your fingers run gingerly through my hair.
It seems as though my bitterness has gone.
Seasons have changed
and I've almost forgotten the pain.
I am free to bask there and think
about inconsequential things.
The way rays of sunlight pirouette on the carpet
like tiny dancers, lazy and drunk.
And how I want apple scented dish soap
to make the task smell better,
since I'm incapable of making it more interesting.
When I sometimes talk
you sometimes chuckle
at my silliness, my strangeness,
and the ways I'm betrayed by my femininity.
Still, your strong hands
continue to touch me lightly,
weaving through my hair.
Intertwining the shreds of my soul
in to a brilliant tapestry
even if it is a bit worse for the wear.
Author notes
Written February 7th, 2004
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