Once 
I found 
a strand 
of your hair 
(thick and black 
like a wire) 
interwoven 
in the synthetic woolen fibers 
of the trademark hobo gloves 
you'll never wear again. 
I studied it, 
contemplated 
swallowing it 
(ah, to choke to death 
on your hair 
would be something), 
but opted for saving it 
between 
the leaves of the tattered copy of Ariel 
you gave me.