163 Days

A poem

Tears should be the soft exhalations of grief: smooth, like warm butter spreading across a biscuit fresh from the oven.

Instead, they are drops of fire and acid that rip themselves free from my ducts, burning long after they’re gone.

Grief is a squat, ugly cave covered in slime and full of dripping, half-broken stalactites.

All it can do is echo, echo, echo, back the love I have lost, send it vibrating through every molecule, every atom of what remains of my being.

There are no answers to be found here, so why can’t I leave?