I want to put my hands there too

walking with you or simply being near..
 the words we share, however true, inspired, beautiful,
fall on dead hearts and paralyzed limbs.

instead, wishing existence where you, in momentless presence,
  withold simple gratitudes you grant
unworthy peers--

         (all these beyond want
     yet still a base desire).

though nothing vile, perverse--
 i wish to keep this imperfection pure.

whatever falls from your grip,
 graceful, slowly floating,
,,,
i want to catch and clasp forever.

something you've at some time deemed worthy to protect,
 where you felt through fingertips
viable vitality in more than you..

 i want to put my hands there too.

She does interesting things with her hair. She pulls it back and sets it with butterfly hair clips. She does that-scrunchie in her mouth, roll hair into a pigtail thing . She tosses it out of and around coats and pulls her bangs either out of or into her eyes, depending on her temporary perspective.

When she is reading she often twirls an end, wrapped around an index finger. When she eats she pulls it away from her face, even when it is not really in the way.

She stares at it, brushes it, pulls on it and fights it. It both surrounds her and abandons her. She hates it when it is wet and loose and tangled. Reckless and alluring-I think, but she wouldn't say that.

I try not to stare at her work in progress, but when she lets it go, (when she sleeps)-it falls into her face and onto her shoulders-soft brown veil for her dreams. It has a life of its own.