Grief

Grief doesn’t make any sense unless you’re in it.

It’s weird when someone’s there and then they’re not.

There’s a pause, and then it hits, and then you pause, and then it hits.

There’s a line of water glasses on the counter. You have the will to take a sip but you’ve forgotten about them.

Like the memories of the person in your mind and the basket they gave you for your birthday that you must have lost in the move.

Even the cat’s sadder than normal.

Grief’s not a constant breakdown like in the shows.

More like a tagalong shadow that fills the cracks of your life.

You just took a break, scrolled through your phone. Cursing, you remember again.

There’s a darkness in your heart and throat.

A blankness behind your eyes.

It’s seeping through you like water and mud.

You’re now writing to cope instead of for pleasure.

Yesterday you worried about dinner. Today you worry about airplane tickets and breaking the news.

The dusk fog outside reminds you of your head.

Grief is so passive, it does nothing but sit there and burn.

It stands in your heart and sets you on autopilot. 

It’s passive until it isn’t.

They’re right when they say to let the pain in.

The longer you forget the worse it is when you remember.