Bun
They love the way she gathers her hair,
her fingers minding her hairline,
combing from the forehead,
down to the temples,
behind the ears.
Yes: she is ordinary, like most people;
but how lucky they are to witness
her miss the last tendril,
the one that sticks to her neck,
curled like a crescent moon.
źródło: Read A Little Poetry
10.09.2026