Spring

I never told you
that your black hair 
was a forest 
where I lost myself;
blood slowed down
to tree sap speed, and
memory mercifully 
failed. 

I was a visitor there,
lucky
and briefly safe
in its density,
soothed
by that smell, 
like still-breathing leaves 
whispering 
from the ground.

I am sorry
that I could not stay.

When I had to go 
you cut off your hair, 
grieved with your scissors, 
the severed coils 
spilling 
on the floor. 

But it grew back.