You broke up with me.
I dyed my hair.
You told me my soft locks of brown reminded you of mountains you hiked upon - they remind me of you.
I cut it short.
You told me when it shined in the sun and blew in the wind that it captured who I was; like leaves falling from trees so gracefully after their death - I no longer wanted to play with it.
I leave it down.
You told me it got in the way of my beautiful face and as gorgeous as it was, it wasn't the eyes you wanted to gaze into - my eyes are hidden now.
And now it grows back.
My hair is longer; long enough for a ponytail.
My fingers itch to pull it up.
But a meaningless act to some unlocks too much heartbreak for me.
My roots are showing.
And just like rings on a tree, the inches of brown mark time I hadn't noticed I'd been counting.
It's been three inches since I've last seen you.
Pathetic, but true.