Combing through...

Combing through my wet hair,
I pause.
Broken strands fall
onto my hands,
my nape, my back,
and onto the bare, swept floor.

Once a part of me,
Now, loose, dead, scattered.

I know this is what happens
when the comb of years runs through
the thin strands of memories
housed
in the partitions of my mind and my soul.

No matter how much I resist
the comb of years will tug at them, hard.
Slicing through these memories,
like apples sliced into half,
and their core discarded.

Remembrances will break, snap, slip and fall.

Once a part of all that I was
No longer a part of all I could be.

And my heart, losing their cherished weight
will become heavier still!

Oh, the irony!