yesterday, you plucked a grey hair out of your head and brought it to me without a word. like you were delivering the tangible news that we were growing old. some brave discovery. my head buried in yours so often now. i'd easier trace the patterns of all those silvery lines scattered on your crown than walk myself home, most days. as if not noticing them made their existence less real. like those moments when we stop time. try to make life wait for a second. even at the start, we both know, there isn't going to be enough.