Weaving Devotion

Poem #2

My hair spills like ink,
seeping to your fingertips.
It drifts like midnight engines,
weaving through the dark,
as deep and unyielding as coal burning fire.
My hair is the loom of my soul,
a quiet pulse in the night.
Please, touch it.

The braids fall down my back,
each one holding a memory, a longing.
I want you to touch my hair.
Take my braids in your hands—
trace the knots that bind me.
My love is woven into these strands,
and my devotion is not given lightly.
To love me, to truly love me,
is to say, Yes, I burn there, and mean it.

My hair is midnight’s devotion.
December’s smoke rises from a hearth
kept alive through the cold, unforgiving,
never quite consumed.
And there, where its warmth lingers,
my heart burns too.