Bad Haircut.

The pack of tissues you gave me, to dry my salty tears.

You did not try to touch me, just stared as drops dripped down my face,

Over my lips and nose in a gushing flow. I have not cried in years.

Least not in front of you.

Our words are short and clipped - like the ragged remains of my hair.

The gaps of silence longer than the spoken sound itself.

Our meeting has weight, repressed emotions and words unspoken piled on, layer after layer.

My haircut started this conversation, but still it is far from over.

I will keep the tissues you gave me. I don’t think I will use them though.

They are the peace between our to-and-fro.