I found the hair,
(I am sure it was yours)
in the footwell of my car
as I rummaged for sandwiches at lunchtime.
It must have been there for months.
Drawing it forth slowly; long, black,
a slight reddishness –
your Irish quarter, you once joked –
I stared at it a minute or two.
Pausing.
Lapsing into a sudden daydream –
and you were there,
with me in the car
as if real.
I reached out and put an arm around your waist
(in my mind of course)
as I looked into your face
a moment or two.
And then I awoke
to reality and drab peanut butter sandwiches.
But I left the hair in a rear footwell,
Ready to be discovered again, sometime.
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