There is one piece of hair that always curls behind the back of my left ear,
There is this reoccurring dream in which our bloodline turns to wine,
The one in which you can relate to the rhythm of my crows scree. 

There is one bone in the clavicle of this tree that aches on impulse,
There are symphonies strangling the neck of my cello with upturned noses,
And daggers peering up at me from the gleam of sunshine in your pocket. 

I never cared much for this piece of hair that curls out of place. 
A celluloid sits frozen in time above a flameless mantel.
The dust coughs up from a glass jar spilling in ink and we all gawk
At a wilted rose folded neatly in the crease of a dusted family album. 

Wondering why it never had a chance to bask in the sunlight of the garden, Wondering all it must have done wrong,
Or how beautifully it could’ve bloomed if only it had been given the chance. 


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