What's Missing or Who's Missing

There was not a single strand of hair in my pocket.

It was a night like a raft on murky water, the surface constantly breaking, even on halts, tired or otherwise. The sky was charcoal unscathed, seemingly soft, yet hard, and palpably untouchable, like a redish black clothe.

She used to say that moments crease like a bunch of weeds in her hands. You know, the kind when you want to jack off but remain unslighted, by the, what else, but the hand of time. It seemed impenetrable, you know, her eyes, like droping gumamelas on a late summer’s night. And her hair, thick like old wilted rose petals.

I imagined our next meeting to be a bit nastier. You know, with handcuffs, with hair in my pocket.