Grief sits like a bruise on the bottom of your heart.
It clings to the warm purple edges – out of reach in the day.
It waits – shy of the light – for the night.
Then it corrupts your heart’s warmth,
the feeling fills you up with urgency like a ship to sink.
Then it sits in your cage and cannot be ignored.
It is brave in the quiet,
it tells stories of faces you used to see.
The eyes that used to listen to you
leave a crack when they peel away.
As you fracture – you may shatter.
You may be demolished,
in this loneliness
you may not recover.
But know that your destruction was from the desparate squeeze of a friendship’s last hug. That the grief that clings to you is the echo of arms that once folded your hair to your back. Loss is love’s compliment.
I don’t know where to put the world’s that we leave, perhaps the shattering will clean up its own mess.
Maybe as you shrug from one phase into another like a tight pair of pants, you are allowed to leave them behind. Let them crumple – fold them – give them away. Walk through your floor’s mosaic of all that you have been and done, while remembering them in appropriate perspective.
Realize that through all life’s impermanence you – the observer – remain.
This is a journey of self, and it is full of meaning.