[NOTE: Like many others, I am looking for places I can place my daily grief if only to rest for a little while. This was today’s poem.]

Grief is a missed call

It’s listening intently to their voicemail. Just in case.

It’s holding your breath then shyly leaving a “thinking of you” behind, hoping you aren’t placing flowers at a grave.

Call me back if you get the chance.

Grief is a save the date left forgotten.

It’s remembering the “would’ve been” days or maybe weeks later.

It’s trying to grab time itself between fearful hands.

Grief is the music of your hood gone sour.

It’s resentment for the constant noise, the desire for stillness.

And still, the fear of waking up to silence sits heavily between your ears.

Grief is holding your dreams in your arms every morning as they flicker and fade.

Grief is burying the self from the day before.

It’s performing funeral rites for all the loss (and the lost) as you brush your teeth.

It’s unwittingly imagining the funeral rites of others when your mind wanders too long in a meeting about nothing.

Grief is.

Grief is and is and is and is and is.