Skin Mode

I run the clipper guard #2 along his crown—
an even rain. The swatch book is open at Warm Haze,
but he wants Streetlight Calm; I thumb the presets,
watch his layer catch a thought and glimmer.

In the mirror, my own won’t register him.
His hand on my wrist is a glove of static.
Customers tip in coins older than my mother,
the jar winks copper in the weak tea light.

They say overuse causes flatline touch.
As if we left feeling in a sink overnight,
as if nerves can silt. I know the bypass—
two leads, a whispered code, a risk of permanent desync.

He laughs, and my layer guesses, sleeting confetti,
no seed of warmth beneath the sparkle.
I could hotwire him; I could be felt again.
The shop bell tings—
rain breathes on the glass in even strokes.

I lay the clipper down. I tell him,
I can cut your hair, not your truth.
A tip slides—old coins, cold and honest—
into the jar’s throat.
We sweep in silence, my nape learning to be skin.