Strands

You complain about my hair, where it falls out, the places you find it.

The drain has been the most common, but my defense is always strong.

You have as much hair in that drain as I do.

You have more hair on your body than I do.

But you don't notice the short strands I find in the creases of my books,

The stubby whiskers I find along the edges of the sink in our bathroom,

The curly beard hair in the perfectly cooked eggs you made for me this morning.

You told me you pulled one of mine out of the crease of your armpit today.

Our hair is also in New York,

Along the streets of the windy Chelsey Highline,

In the dirty bar where you got a free drink of whiskey for being nice to the bartenders,

In the piles of dust gathering in the old warehouse we wandered around drunk, watching actors recite lines from the Scottish play.

Our hair is in New Orleans,

In the gutter with the rest of the neglected beads from my Mardi Gras birthday,

In the shotgun house where we napped because our feet hurt from walking,

In the Mississippi river after the warm rainstorm sent us to the nearest seafood house in the French Quarter.

Our hair is in Mexico,

In the ocean from when we snorkeled with an unruly family in the cloudy heat,

In the karaoke bar we sang in so badly we swore we would never do it again,

In the deck of cards we spent an entire day shuffling, learning every two-person card game we could.

Our hair is in the city we live in,

Pulled from scarves during our late night walks and discarded along the empty streets,

Along the seawall where we longboarded and you fell and bruised your ribs,

They’re on your favorite jacket from when I leaned on your shoulder to watch the fireworks on new years eve.

Our hair creates the dust bunnies that collect under our furniture.

Our hair is proof that we exist in this world together.