Grief

1 August 2018

They were right, it
does come in
waves, that hold you
under, as you writhe and
ache, for a surface
that you can’t
place,

that pull your mozzarella
body, in every direction,

that swallow your breath, again
and again,

and just before the Stockholm
syndrome kicks in, and
you befriend the
depths, it wanes

and you wade to the
shore, where reminders
lap and promise that

it won’t be always like this.

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