They are the only ones who outline the back. I am the only one who notices the struggle. 100 desperate hairs colored like the sun with curls like mine. 100 who struggle to cling. 100 flowing edges made from arduous years. From the chaos, they cannot be seen, but they cause a second glance.

Their flimsiness is secret. They uproot soft colors from the scalp. They had grown long and lush and without end, but disease had made them grow weak. This is their death.

Let one forget their descent, waiting until they fall, entangled in a never ending spiral. Strong, strong, strong they say when I brush. They listen.

When I am too tired and too fragile to love loving, when I am alongside this bed, then it is I look at hairs. When there is nothing to see on top of the head. 100 who flourished in the day. 100 who fall and are still falling. 100 whose only reason has fallen short of reason.