How do you begin to grieve the living?
I’ve never even learned to grieve my dead.
That feels like a lifetime ago.
I slid the note aside,
your words cut to the bone.
The way I thought I fell,
how I felt it would never settle.
What was I looking for in all the yearning?
I hold this grief to my chest as armor,
guarding the hope,
the memories that lay within,
if one day our stories find each other again.
I learned how
she showed me how
to pour myself out, a cup at a time.
Time the steep, temp the heat,
dash of honey, squeeze of lemon,
mask the bitterness.
My bitterness. My mask.
Makes for a more palatable taste.
Lessons learned by way of biting consequence.
More lore left untold.
I anxiously anticipate the distance, the cold,
a pleasant excuse to feel numb.
When there’s space, when you’re just gone,
no one notices when you’re adrift.
Maybe one day I’ll feel rooted;
nurtured in healing, hope, sacrifice,
commitment.
“A love story for the ages!” they’ll say,
“A testament to the strength of tenderness!”