grief

Grief, it seems, is a private affair — celebrate in public, mourn in private. It stays, breathing with you, a lingering sense of tiredness accompanying it. The ritual of an end.

Why does it feel disassociating, destabilising? Yet, it seems solid and tangible, like a bag of metallic balls weighing you down, the cold taste of metal lingering on your tongue. One, a high; the other, a low — yet both are highs, both lows, a matter of perspective, perhaps.

Happiness is light, frothy, ethereal, and web-like — like cotton candy. Grief, a rain-drenched bed sheet, cold and heavy.

Faithful. Grief, I suppose, walks alongside you — a silent presence as you journey through