I am scrolling through a website called ‘men’s hairstyles today’ trying to imagine what a number four haircut looks like
It is half an inch long
I avoid looking at the photo of Zac Effron accompanying the description
1.25 centimetres

I am trying to remember if I donated my hair the second to last time I had a haircut
If I did, that means the hair of mine that you touched has been preserved somewhere
I wonder where the hair I touched of yours is
I am now on a website called ‘hair-heads’ reading about salon waste disposal
A headline reads:
I pull my hand away from my head and think about flakes of skin from my fingers attaching themselves to strands of your hair
I see a small insect, a centipede or a millipede, chewing and sucking at our organic compound

I am unsure of how many days I have been laying here in the dark
I feel the weight of your torso close to compressing me into the surface below
I give in and my face falls into softness
It enters first through my nose and mouth, and then through my ears
We are falling together now
I land on top of you
Something small and flat lies between us
It pushes downwards and then upwards

I am making my way through the fruit and vegetable section of Morrisons
My final stop on this aisle is for potatoes
Everything is pre packed except for the baking potatoes
I begin to rummage through the muddy objects, running my fingers gently across the surface of each individual
I pause when I reach one potato, of which three of my fingers slip inside indents on its unusual shape
I pick it up and place it in a plastic grocery bag, tying a loose knot to allow some air circulation
I nestle my potato in a bed made of spring greens and continue my journey to the milk aisle




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