The physicality of grief
is a very real thing.
Sometimes it can show up as tears in my heart,
reknitting and twisting into shapes new,
A pulmonary patchwork
of addled atriums and vagaried ventricles.

But not just heart,
My blood seems to slow to a crawl within
a body which keeps tabs in ways that no one sees.
Not even me, most days.
My arms hold themselves quietly by my side,
My legs can only meander,
there is no purpose in my stride
as I come to a stop at my front door,
walk back inside
Because the world feels too loud and too empty today.

Tomorrow I’ll be fine,
However that looks,
but today carries this timeless ripple effect
like there’s this vortex we didn’t close properly,
this vacuum where we used to breathe
This space occupied and
Full to bursting
The accompanying ache of missing someone so much
It bears, not just weight
But mentioning.