Grief is not art
Not a statement
It doesn’t pile like ground shattering bricks
It is a trickling of small moments gradually building a wall
To block out the sun on the other side
Grief is the darkness when you feel most alone
Because it knows you are weak
It preys on on you like the small graze of a finger
So light you barely notice until the whole hand clamps down on your arm and you’re losing blood
Grief is the man who pours one cup of tea instead of two
Grief is the dress you picked out for her being the last you’ll ever see her wear
Grief is the tears hidden behind hands at the kitchen table
Grief is shopping for three black dresses because she wouldn’t like the first
Grief is the collection of pictures on the wall
Grief is anger in his shaking fists
Grief is knowing she’s not there
But you don’t feel it rush at you all at once
It’s a slow build of boulders on your shoulder
Until you’re crying alone in your room wishing you could see them once more