The fickle summer breeze would sweep through your hair,

which you always complained that it shedded too fast and would desert your head,

leaving a mound of soft skin with bulging blue rivers.

So I feared that when the wind blew

your hair would disappear like the dandelion fuzz

and plant itself elsewhere.

But miraculously it merely floated gently,

and then came back down again,

as if the breeze had not existed.

Years have passed since that calm summer.

You always said that calm was just a synonym for boring.

So I wonder if the time we spent

was merely a passing summer wind,

leaving you untouched because I was too afraid

of your delicateness

and the danger of my strength.