I know that one day his hair will no longer need a hand of mine to run through it - perhaps it will be housed by his hoodie with the name of his new home on it, or maybe it will be cut or shaved or gelled into stature so it can withstand a finger’s touch. I know that he will be able to fix it on his own, that when wind blows or when fists nudge it may not be my fingertips that brush it back into place - nevertheless, it may not even be his. I know that it won’t be my hands that stroke though his brown and night shaded bristles while he sleeps. I know he may never come back, and that the parts of him that shed on my pillow whenever he falls asleep will be what’s left of him. The last token that I can keep for myself while the rest of him scatters in places beyond.