My hand runs through your long hair.

Thoughts come to mind.

Your hair will eventually grow sturdily.

I will die.

Like rain in late spring.

It is difficult to see blooming flowers after wetting.

Thought of here.

My fingers are bent like dead trees.

Trembling in your hair

I don't know if it's because of the knot or the fear.

My hand runs through your long hair.

Thoughts come to mind.