lunar quest
counting hair strands—
counting them as they fall
onto the pillows
how many black,
how many white
like pawns I pick them up
to toss them out the window.
"you know, one day you'll go bald
if you keep smoking"
but it still hurts
pulling white strands
like a flick of cigarette ashes scraping the arm—
it's not time
to subside yet.
I still hold in the scream
pulling the oxygen in
my black lungs.
watching outside the window
the hair keeps falling
on gray concrete,
two colors now blur
into one
indifferent gray filament
easily swerved by a sudden wind
I don't have a meaning
for gray