slow displacing
weight,
years
pooled at my feet,
afloat atop the
puddle-
a grey teardrop
in heat,
on the cusp of
clearing
up,
chiseled
from clay sleep..
or
grief
of farewell worth
forgiving,
heart in hand,
while never knowing.
grief
kitchen chair still
holds your
shape,
though you’ve gone
missing for
all days..
turn grey now
sun won’t
reach
you
as much as i’d
love to.
on day’s front page
i read of
hate
then had a sip
of tea,
so frantically,
i scrubbed both eyes
as ink poured down
my cheeks
forming two black hearts,
inches apart,
i pray you don’t
think me
weak.
a teardrop into
puddles,
a breeze become
slow breath,
the sigh into one’s
heavy hands
a whisper shy
of death.
when winter
folds
and
spring behaves
i’ll be
at your door
but not a teardrop
before
you emerge from
grave.
often, late
at night
i wait for you in
the corner of
my bed
as though you’ll
show
and guide me
by the hand
over to an open
window
to stare down
the moon together,
although i know
better.
on the tip of
dire news
i watched
branches bend
as if accommodating
fate’s harsh
winds.
a pill for
grief
rests on a table,
in a cup,
poured into
a hand
in the center of
a room
where no one feels
a thing.
met you in the
waiting
room,
where that big hand
never moves
and our tears don’t
run anymore
four drained
eyes
aimed at the
floor.
sorrow takes
a bow
so dear griever
can breathe
in fresh night
which carries upon it
the desire to heal
beyond.
hands in the garden 
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