A Hair

In one of my old kitchen drawers,
I found a long, brown hair
And knew at once that it was yours;
It must have fallen there.

I loved to run my fingers through
Your chocolate-coloured curls,
Whenever I was kissing you,
Most beautiful of girls.

But you were never fond of mind,
It being mottled grey;
You took that as an outward sign
To take yourself away.

Now all I have of you is this:
A hair on which to reminisce.

Photo by Tim Foster on Unsplash