Grief doesn’t descend
as a single gray cloud.

It takes its time.

It slowly blinds
you with soft
falling ash,
and enters your pores
like a dying mist.

It settles in
your throat as
a burning wind,
and rips at your lungs
like rabid ghosts.

It burrows its way
like a blind vole
under the surface
of your days
leaving hollow trails

It scrapes across
your body, etching
scars only you
will ever see.
“I’m fine,” you say

And smile.



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