Losing the game again

The fear is, of course, that this is
how we will end up: tears running
into my Tolstoy beard, lamentations
that the painter and decorator
didn’t get my ‘Dorian’ right,

while you – and the sneer that snared
me, the wit that speared me,
the kohl that subdued me – go
on and on and thrillingly on.

You keep tweeting about your plans
to dye your mane again, a murky
shade of attention; and I can’t tell
you my one wish: just to hold
your new hair back from your face.