Art Exhibition: 5 - Tresses

By the touch of your sway, I feel the bob of the curl sweep down beneath your brow and gently kiss your crease of skin.  Your eye's same substance, reflecting the keratin of past bellows and future cries, seeps under the wave as a blow from the glass hollowed pitcher lifts the remains of a once potent crime.  I miss the way it fell and laughed.  I missed the curl of your hair.  

      - J. A. Kind