My hair grew long

Photo by Angèle Kamp on Unsplash

My hair grew long,
waves of raven hitting my back.
I let my hair fall past my breast.
And the sun ran through it,
burning the bits to dark charcoal.
And you used to run your fingers through.

But when you left, I pulled
my silver shears out
of the dusty drawer and I tied my hair
tight and pulled back
and I cut through the bundle,
the bits hitting the ground like ashes.
And you were gone
with every trace of your finger tips.

I let my hair grow long,
new fibers never to be touched,
growing down towards my knees
no memories to cut away
with my silver scissors.
New hair growing long,
without your fingers soft and sweet,
encouraging the pieces to grow.

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