Lately resuming an old habit of combing
my fingers through your hair
I note that, whereas in the past, dissenting,
you would have turned away gently
after granting me my moment,

now, with the passing of time, because
you see in my eyes fading hope
in the laws of chance relenting,
yourself weary of the long slide,
the endless warring between
equipoise and perversity,

you do not turn away but close your eyes
and make a soft noise like purring
which may yet swell to a growl
of love behind a tigress' tooth
if I persist in an old habit of combing
my fingers through your hair.