words moved me, and
God
i wanted my fingers to blister and my
bones to ache
but my mind withers and my heart breaks
i swallowed ink and still i couldn’t
make the words flow like they used to as if
almost as if
they refuse to

In my rush to empty you from me


I spilled a small drop of myself


I'll keep pouring you away...


Perhaps the parts of me that spill with you


Were never really me.

I was once a diamond in the rough.
I went through the dirt
And almost got stuck.
Yet I lasted the test of time.
Now watch me sparkle,
It’s my time to shine.

The scent of her perfume permeated the room
Her room
It was decorated in muted rose colors

The perfume had a scent like delicate flowers
It was unforgettable
A bottle of it sat on her dresser
It had a unique look to it
Classic and sophisticated
It was a gift from her husband
She always wore it
It was her perfume
Chanel No 5

Now when I think about it I can almost smell it again
That unforgettable scent
That was part of who she was
It helped define her

Nowadays if I see the perfume in stores or get a whiff of it
I always remember memories of her

They are both sweet and bittersweet

She’s the kind of friend who knows what you think before you think it.
Her laugh is familiar,
Like hot chocolate on a winter day.
Her presence is safe;
She reminds you of that big tree fort you and your brother built to hide from the fairies
And forest monsters.
Her room is home to you.
It’s where you go when something goes bump in the night.
She will never judge you for the out of pocket things you say or do, and
Her watchful eyes make you feel
Protected and seen for who you are.
She leaves tomorrow.
Back to Kentucky, 2,000 miles away.
And now you’re afraid
That you’ll never have a cup of hot chocolate again.
That the monsters and the fairies will finally catch you
Or the bumps in the night paralyze you with fear.
Nobody will ever know your soul
The way she did
And you’re afraid of being unknown and alone again.

In our mid-50s on a poetry site for our kids in their 20s. Not on top of the world. Not really. Not in real-time.

And you'll be with me
won't you?

In Paris, never really seeing but always trying not to step on all the sh*t.

And you'll be with me
won't you?

In Berlin, looping around endlessly on some Bahn, making crosses.

And you'll be with me
won't you?

In Rome, running another marathon. OK. Maybe you'll run it and I'll just cheer you on.

And you'll be with me
won't you?

In Los Angeles, in the end-- at the peak looking back to see us coming and foreseeing us going.

You'll be here in our seething cities, cities by the river with me.
Won't you?

Grief.
Grief.
Strange grief.
One moment it numbs you.
Holding you in denial.
And disbelief.
And the next.
It drowns you in
torrents of tears.
Like a fierce summer
rainstorm.
Where you can barely hold on.

Grief.
Grief.
Strange grief.
One moment you relish
in your new freedom.
Your new life.
And the next.
You miss them so much
that it feels like a slow death.

Grief.
Grief.
Strange grief.
All that you knew and loved.
Is not there anymore.
And in its place.
Is an empty void.
So hard to endure.
Sometimes you long for things
to be.
As they were before.
When you sit alone.
Pondering.
How life once was.
When your family was together.

Grief.
Grief.
Strange grief.
Oh, when will come relief?
Can time really heal this great wound?
Perhaps a little.
Yet the depth of the wound,
and the number of scars,
can only truly be healed.
By the Man of Sorrows.

Grief.
Grief.
Strange grief.
Will I ever feel whole and complete again?
When it feels like half of me has been
ripped away.
Leaving a gaping hole.

The Man of Sorrows.
Whispers to my soul.
"It is not irreparable."
I collapse in His arms.
And pour out my grief.
Grief.
Strange grief.
And He makes me whole.
Again.