sway

I always admired the way
that your hair stuck
to your ears
and descended towards your
forehead,
not a bowl
but like the
watercolor paints
I use on holidays
-- stretched and pressed
as the color of the
browns in your eyes
--sure, steady,
safe,
except when you wept
on the phone
and I did too
on the day the pills
didn't
work,
and I could feel
my surprise
and my arms did not,
though they still sting where the
curve of your fingernails
do not sway.