My body somehow knows
The grief tomorrow holds.
I ache and throb
But I cannot sob;
The urge to cry
Stings my eyes.
My feet drag heavily
In the depths of this valley.
Every year without fail
I remind myself I am too frail.
"You're strong without the numbers,"
Yet I was too weak to pull you from your slumber.
Each March 22nd
Feels just like the 1st end,
When your heart stopped beating
And mine started bleeding.
I'd skip this whole day
But I'd miss the chance to say:
I miss you, lovely little hurricane.
It's all I can do to keep sane.
The smell of mint
Hurts just a hint.
The skinny jeans and hair bows
I could never disown.
I wear your effect  
On my forearm *****.
The pain of loss is akin
To etching you into my skin.
My hands shake with cold,
Though not as cold as a headstone.
Oh, how my body knows
The grief tomorrow holds.

The sensation of falling while silently standing alone in a crowd.
Cold icy chill running along my spine, confusing the nerves in my skin.
Hunger gnawing at the fringes of my curiosity, eating away my insides.
Ancient giants pounding their weight against my fragile skull.
A magnifying glass focused in on my minuscule existence, observing.
A vacuum, void, opaque blackness pressing my fibers into dust.
Breathless gasping, desperate pleading on deaf ears again.
Don't turn away.
Don't you dare turn away.
Listen to me scream.
Come back.
Look at me.
See nothing.