One of Your Hairs | Ghosh Nod

  • Krysia Jopek
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One of your hairs took me by surprise.

The first snow fell, duck-down light, blue-white and directionless.

I slipped my woolen coat from a hanger, musty from its summer hibernation. The camel-colored Burberry promised warmth and protection. It was heavy with the scent of tobacco and yesterdays.

A single hair poked from the cashmere pile, an auburn coil protruding like an accusation. I pulled a hand’s breadth and more. The uncolored root was last to escape the weave, as if resistant to exposure.

My own is short and the color of earth. I knew the hair wasn’t mine.

One of your shirts caught me off guard yesterday. It must have slipped between the bed and wardrobe, cast aside in a fever of love. I extricated the fabric from the guts of the vacuum cleaner, its tissue separated in my fingers, like lightly cooked egg white.

One of your books demanded I read it. I thought I’d given them all away. The leather-worn spine held the promise of pages still warm from your touch.

A memory of something you’d cooked on a wet Sunday tickled my taste buds. I found the recipe and made beef ragout without the anchovies.

I don’t have anchovies.

I don’t have you.

Your skin flakes collect in forgotten corners. In spring, I catch you in dust motes and sneezes.

When I drink coffee instead of tea, I taste your caffeinated kiss.


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