Dear Sister

I can’t help but watch the spot

to where your hair meanders to the pavement.

Why did you cut your hair?

So cropped close to your skull,

naked,

clinging,

like the skin to your bones,

the skin to your lips,

cracked and dry like a river bed.

Only when that hair was shed,

did I truly glimpse your entity.

I do not love you.

Blatant tears I shed for you.

Eyelashes red rimmed,

you and me both.

You were as high as the sky,

and I was entombed,

under scorched earth,

falling,

clawing,

retching,

yearning for that life to come back into your eyes.

But your eyes are black.

Where did you go?

Your skin is ice,

pale as snow.

Your lips are chapped.

Your veins,

deathly translucent at your wrist,

left exposed.