BEANERY ONLINE LITERARY MAGAZINE
CURLS AT TWELVE YEARS OLD
His hair bounced,
Silken smooth apple butter color,
Causing me to turn back twice
With the way it moved.
Sometimes now, I wish I had his hair
With all the curls.
My fingers jumped in and swam,
In the crinkled waves, while
The scent of freesia and sea salt
Wafted up through the air.
His curls, as I caressed, mixed with sunlight,
Tossing a halo up to me.
His hair was a wild animal,
Untamable, like a child.
Sometimes now, I wish for his hair.
My fingers understood that it
Was so much like him, me, us.
Sometimes now, I wish for his curls and youth again.