What is grief,
if not love
wandering in search of a home?
It lingers in hollow spaces,
quiet corners of empty rooms,
whispering to walls
that no longer echo back.
Grief is love without a pulse—
a heartbeat still waiting for an answer,
a name spoken into silence,
hoping for an echo
that will never come.
But still,
I need it to become something.
To sprout wings
or take root in the soil—
to turn into something I can hold:
a garden,
a letter,
a breath.
Something to name the weight.
Grief is love unbound—
it spills,
it seeps,
it finds the cracks in days and nights,
asking, always asking:
Where now?
And yet—
grief moves.
It carries yesterday’s tenderness
into tomorrow’s hands,
grows roots in memory,
builds altars from the ache,
finds its place
in every sunrise,
every tear
that softens the ground.
Grief is love
that will not rest,
will not relent.
But one day, I believe—
it will bloom.