coiffor

i would neither speak,nor touch,but watch.
i'd rather see rain poorring outside the window.
i would cut your hair as if i were michelangelo. i would fear misshaping the undercover curls. i would not whisper,but i would sigh,for shaky,loving hands cannot deal with precision. i would pretend i'm trying to get an angle,faking thoughtful grimmaces which you would unwillingly print beyond your forehead. you'd get scared of the scissors cutting your ear,or getting into your green left eye. it's tricky not to be the one carrying the scissors.
it might be just an instant. it might resume the whole circumstance,heartbeats,speed of thoughts passing both streams,yours and mine. i like you better on the chair rolling eyes and trusting my very cold hands.
i would be the taller one while giving you the haircut. and i would wink as i am done with it,passing you the mirror,waiting for your approval smile.
you'd get stuck with me until your hair grows back and some other hands,holding some other scissors would give you a brand new haircut.

he used to buy me strawberries

he used to buy me strawberries.
this very short piece of story is not about love.
it is about some cropped,chilly fragment of austere and thrilling rapture.
it is about a faint smile and a bag of strawberries and emotions stired within a breast.
it is about gibbering when the bag went from one pair of hands towards another pair of hands.
it is about the quandary begging the question whether to wash or not to wash the content of the bag before eating.
it is about a "thank you" which found no reverberation,for sounds cannot propagate into vacuum.
it is about about one feeling aggrieved for not having received anything but strawberries.