the wind is warm and my freshly cut hair matches the stark colour of the sky

the coffee shop stays open late
for heartbreakers and people with broken hearts
for unintelligible daughters and mothers who don't understand
for incompatible couples that still hold hands and i watch him push her hair behind her ear disinterestedly

there is a girl here
there are several, if i look properly
but she's brighter
which is funny because she has skin that mirrors burnt chocolate and her hair is darker than mine
and i thought my hair was pitch black but hers is richer, thicker, blowing in the same warm wind as my freshly cut hair

and the point of this word vomit could have been about how she's pretty
but really, she's not
but looking at her makes me regret letting the man with scissors stand behind me
and mute the colour of my hair