Grief is poetic
when silence becomes the ink,
when you’re lost for words
and find them buried in your chest.
Sadness, clear as crystal,
mirrored in my eyes,
but you wore blindfolds of comfort.
You turned your gaze to lighter skies.
I’m an afterthought
when loneliness creeps in
a name you whisper
only when silence is too loud.
But I
I search for you in every face,
feel your shadow
in rooms you’ve never walked into.
You remember me
in quiet hours,
As I carry you into every crowd,
haunted by your absence
Through the noise.
My hands, once steady,
now tremble like candle flames
in the draft of your memory.
They couldn’t speak
in the heat of your imaginary touch.
I wear your absence
like thread through my ribs
delicate,
yet pulling every breath, a little thinner.
You left like morning mist,
vanishing before I could hold it.
I stayed, like a love note never read,
creasing in someone else’s drawer.
***
This is a poet’s day
dressed in metaphors,
dripping with invisible ink,
smiling like a well-penned lie.
And still a smile lingers,
painted on like a mask.
It’s all they see.
No one reads the footnotes
where I buried everything I meant.
***
By: Zoulaikha
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 4:24 PM UTC
Grief is poetic
when silence becomes the ink,
when you’re lost for words
and find them buried in your chest.
Sadness, clear as crystal,
mirrored in my eyes,
but you wore blindfolds of comfort.
You turned your gaze to lighter skies.
I’m an afterthought
when loneliness creeps in
a name you whisper
only when silence is too loud.
But I
I search for you in every face,
feel your shadow
in rooms you’ve never walked into.
You remember me
in quiet hours,
As I carry you into every crowd,
haunted by your absence
Through the noise.
My hands, once steady,
now tremble like candle flames
in the draft of your memory.
They couldn’t speak
in the heat of your imaginary touch.
I wear your absence
like thread through my ribs
delicate,
yet pulling every breath, a little thinner.
You left like morning mist,
vanishing before I could hold it.
I stayed, like a love note never read,
creasing in someone else’s drawer.
***
This is a poet’s day
dressed in metaphors,
dripping with invisible ink,
smiling like a well-penned lie.
And still a smile lingers,
painted on like a mask.
It’s all they see.
No one reads the footnotes
where I buried everything I meant.
***
By: Zoulaikha
Epilogue: A Poet on Grief
Grief is not loud in the poet’s world
it hums beneath every stanza, sits between the lines,
soft and unspoken.
It asks for metaphors
because the truth is too sharp, too bare to touch directly.
It becomes rhythm,
so the heart has something to follow when the days blur.
It wears a smile, so the poem is palatable
so the world can keep reading without flinching.
But grief,
to a poet, is a forever companion
not healed, just well-written.