The Non-Living

On a black table
outside in the sun
a strand of blonde hair
moves, jerky
as if a living thing
struggling to breathe
against the wind—
wild, savage

I pinch the hair tight
between index finger
and thumb
and kill it

I remember earlier
under tiles
how the pipes sighed
and the sinks moaned
trying to speak

And on my way to lunch
three flats of roses
sat in the backseat of a car
windows rolled down
so they could breathe

And in our bed
last night—
how closely I wrapped
my arms around you
as if afraid to
let go

and when you
looked at me
how your eyes looked
so lifeless

First poem I've written in a while.