Combing through my wet hair,

I pause.

Broken strands fall onto my hands,

my nape, my back, and onto

the bare, swept floor.

Dead. Scattered.

I know this is what happens

when the comb of years

runs through thin strands of memories

housed in the partitions of my mind.

Combing through the years,

I’m left with sliced memories

like diced apples with

their core discarded.

Once a part of all that I was,

No longer a part of all I could be.