about an orange hair

Once I heard a story about a piece of hair
And I recall how much it bumped on me
Not because of the story
no, not at all
But because these piece of hair
belonged to me
and it was once entirely mine
but not always
and I could see it
and touch it
when I drank my wine
but not anymore
when I didn't

It was beautifully red
but not beautifully concrete
It would glint like no other piece of hair in the world
but simultaneosly not
I wouldn't even see it
nor touch it
nor feel the influence it had on my writting

these glass of wine
these piece of hair
at the end of the night they look the same
they both taste the same way