Death doesn’t make me cry—
it’s the eyes that watch,
the way they crumble in the space between loss and goodbye,
like they’ve just learned
that love can be taken,
that time can slip,
and nothing is as solid as they thought.
I can stand tall,
unshaken by the stillness,
but when I see them—
the ones who remain,
the ones who try to breathe through the ache,
my heart splinters for the weight they carry,
a burden not their own,
yet it clings to them
like it was meant to stay.
Death doesn’t make me cry—
but the ones who are left
to navigate a world without,
to make sense of the pieces scattered,
to stitch themselves together,
that’s where I break.
I mourn them.
I mourn the ache that grows in the quiet,
the weight of memories too heavy
to fit into the spaces we leave behind.
Death doesn’t make me cry—
but seeing them carry it,
that is where my tears begin.