HAIR

The way they feel onto me, 

The way they rest.

Oh. How their tips,

Touch my every inch.

Even when they're taken for granted,

They fall happily on me,

Without a bleat.

They're washed, groomed and 

Styled again.

Never tired.

Hot to trot for the fashion.

They're chained often,

Rarely set free.

My dark and fine hair,

Flutter in the wind.

Then, tied into a knot again.

Every moment I lose some of them,

Feels like I'm losing a part of me.

I can't bid them farewell.

Because they left in a hurry,

Or maybe were mad at me.

I couldn't even apologize.

I beg them to stay.

Promising tomorrow,

I'd treat them nice.

That tomorrow,

I'd be better and wise.

                                       -Manya Singh Patel