Stray Hair

Tired is not always physical,
and anxiety is not always,
clammy palms and,
hunger does not,
always sound like,
a groaning stomach,
and love is not always,
willing to die for someone.
We lean on this,
typical knowledge so-called,
to try to understand,
but there will always be,
a snag in the fabric,
or a stray hair on your head,
or a baby bird in the grass,
and there are flaws,
in our way of picturing,
and our subconscious,
enjoys to paint everything,
beige because that’s easier,
but beige will never touch,
how I hear a groan from,
my mouth and not my stomach,
when I crave for you to be,
on the couch beside me.