by Ewong
for the Starbucks Smacker
I cling to you
like the embrace of a woman
yet I annoy you
like an unwanted suitor
Sometimes I interpret
your frequent
caresses as a
sign of your affection
but now I know
that they are only
meaningless
affectations like things
or food or people
that grow on you,
or perhaps like
the hair on your head
which grows long
like a lazy Sunday
morning song. Yes,
on top of you,
there’s my home
sweet home. Yet you
despise me so
much, despite knowing,
deep in your
bone, that scratching
me off gives an
inexplicable sensation
like being
kissed on the lips by the man
of your dreams, under
poetic moonlight
and dancing
fireflies in a princess’s garden,
or perhaps like that
infinite moment a boy
is no more a boy
when he’s discovered
at last the
wonders of a woman’s nipples
You hate me now
and feel so much
shame for having
me, but you can’t,
and won’t, let
go of me so easily. You
go ahead and try
whatever chemical
but I tell you, I’m
as strong and natural
as the sight of wind-blown
cherry
blossoms,
painted by the gods perfectly
for the purposes
of our romance
You’ll see, my
dear friend, you
will not be well
rid of me, because
for me to leave
you completely,
your hair, your
whole hair, has to go
as well into
oblivion. But perhaps there,
in that desolate
realm of the abandoned,
your hair and I,
just the two of us,
can be friends,
then make love, and have
lots of baby hairs
and little more of my kind.
Perhaps your
hair and I can be truly happy,
without your scalp,
without your head.
Without you. Maybe
it’s better that way.
When I’m far gone,
when you’re old
and wrinkled,
with no hair, not even gray
or white, perhaps
then you’d finally realise
that I was more
than the miserable scum
you shook off
with inconsolable fury,
that I was, in
fact, those little snowflakes
ever so slowly,
enchantingly
falling from your sweet
head.
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