I see a couple through the plate glass windows of a social hall on the bottom level of a dorm.

She is combing and braiding the hair at the back of his neck, 
her fingers working through a small section of it.

Though their eyes don’t meet, 
they are connected by this intimate act

And I want to cry

For their bond 	
	
	and bonds broken, 

For the simple 
	
	when things have gotten so complicated,

For the trust inherent in the running of fingers through one’s hair – 

and the pain in knowing someone else is doing it