Sixty-two. Hair.

Like most women,
when stepping away from a relationship,
I participate in necessary rituals.
I do not put together boxes of mementos
for the dustiest corner of the basement,
nor do I bitterly burn photographs
or cry for precisely 2.5 days.
Two years ago, it was the darkest color
I could find. One year ago, I began
the growth process, a curtain to hide
behind, to warm my neck.
If I change the shape,
then it means I've never been here.
If I change the color, then I hope
I won't be recognized on the street.
Sometimes, a new shampoo in order
to change the familiar mixture of scents
left on the pillows.
This time, afterward,
the locks were soft in between my fingers.
There has not been this much before.
Covering the top of the garbage can, the
forest that you would throw your hands into.
It wasn't enough, taking it away
from my collarbone, my chest.
I put more color into it, this is
superficial, I'm aware, but
I don't know how else to separate
my substance from you.