A Year of Stories (Collection Two)

You Have Her Hair

You have her hair.

Hair like tarnished gold, burnt umber – longer than it is short – shorter than it was then.

You call it, "too much work," I call it tangled silk – a crown, a halo, framing shoulders – framing faces, both yours and hers.

But no, you are not her, you are not her.

I can tell by the stray strands across your eyes. They hang just wrong, just a fraction...wrong. Like the sun seen through a plane of glass, all of the light, but missing a shade of richness.

Just a shade.

Just enough.

You have her eyes,

Copper, green, and edged with the gold of your hair.

Eyes meant to be burned into film, into celluloid – "movie star eyes," what they say when they see them.

But that's not what you see, is it?

That's not what she saw.

She saw a serpent's gaze – eyes that snapped, that pierced, that poisoned.

Eyes too shallow to be real, all false flutters and false tears, eyes meant to be burned...maybe, but not into film.

You have her smile,

That crooked twist of crimson lips that ignites the air.

Not perfect, not hardly, there are more perfect smiles, but maybe none so brilliant, and certainly none that belonged to me.

Your smile, no, her smile – greeted me every morning – swept away sleep and brought light to my day.

"My love," she would say, and I would say, "my all."

Yours is like hers, but bound to a mirror's truth.

Your crimson burns without pity, your brilliance edged with cruelty – when your lips part to call me "love," I swear I can see fangs.

You have her voice,

Steady as a rolling sea, sharp as summer sand.

You once told me, no, she once told me, that hers was a voice not meant for music, a voice not meant for art.

I asked her what it was meant for, and she said, "change."

It's a voice crafted to adapt, to bend like a willow branch – to cast aside doubt.

It's strong when it must be strong, weak when it must be weak, a voice like a prayer – filling the spaces it needs to fill.

Yours is like hers, so much like hers...

But you have my hands,

Cruel hands, deep crimson like your lips.

"We washed that blood away," you say, I say, but still I can can see it, each time I look into your eyes – serpent's eyes – traitor's eyes, like mine.

You cut your hair like hers, and told me in her voice that, "everything could be the same," but hers was a voice of change.

Nothing is the same.

Nothing is the same.