One a.m. and I am speechless.
His sandy brown hair
floats to the ground like burnt embers -
ashes of the past on my bathroom floor.

Instead of him, part of me is lost;
left to be stepped on,
tracked through my halls.
I try to cry out “Stop!”
But to no avail -
my hands are the ones causing this destruction.
One a.m. and I am speechless.

I watch as the soft strands drift
carelessly through my fingertips
they cling to my clothes -
a torturing reminder of
what we once shared.

Is there no immunity to the pain
of watching nine months
be destroyed by blunt kitchen scissors,
until only a shallow emptiness remains?