Hair bands come in many different colors. Some are white, some are pink, and some are grey. And then there's the black one, the one given to me by the person whom I love.
The shampoo that she uses has a peculiar smell, and now I have it on my wrist. The strands of her hair twirled around the band remind me of her. No matter how smooth the hair, they always get stuck in the hair band, as if they were made to stick there, just for me, just for me to hold on to, just for me to smell.
The black hair band, the one that she gifted me, it has fulfilled its purpose. It holds onto her hair, not to tie up, but for me to smell. I never want to pluck out those strands because then I would be losing the only thing I own of her.
She is here in the form of her scent, in my poem as I write, embedded through my wrist as it moves around the book in which I am writing.
I wish I could have more of her than just a hair band and a couple of silky smooth strands dipped through the conditioner she used, but this, is also good than to have nothing of her.
She is just here in my mind, in my poem, in my heart, and in her hair band, which I wear on my wrist.
❤️