Scissors

[sonnet-esque]

Into the night we drank and stained our clothes
with warm wine and scotch and champagne from your brother.
The TV sat lonely, playing yesterday’s shows
repeating themselves, one after another.
You talked often, and mentioned many trips.
Your hair was long, you’d dyed it blonde again.
I pulled out the scissors, giving imaginary snips,
and you shrieked, and smiled over your champagne.
Some hours passed, the scissors still on the table;
I stared at their shape and you picked them up.
With thin limbs swaying, you stood suddenly, unstable.
“Cut my hair,” you said. “We’ll put it in a measuring cup.”
If not for the wine, I would’ve never dared.
But at six a.m., there it was: four cups of yellow hair.