Grief is a house where the chairs have forgotten how to hold us; the mirrors how to reflect us; the walls how to contain us. Grief is a house that disappears each time someone knocks at the door or rings the bell, a house that blows into the air at the slightest gust. It buries itself deep in the ground while everyone is sleeping. Grief is a house where no one can protect you; where the daughter will grow older than the mother and the doors will no longer let you out.

I’m blank. White hands. Faded cheeks. Borrowed whispers. I have fallen through time pretending to be alive. I’ve never told anyone how much it hurts. I’ve forgotten what it feels like, the soft joy. The light touches. I lost my hope, under a cushion, in an abandoned shoe. I pushed it under a rug, like forgotten buttons and discarded fingernails curled around dust. I want to feel again, I need to. I’m scared. I need someone to see me. But you. Your words. You make me remember again. And that in itself is enough to kill me.

I don’t think I’m ready to let go.
I don’t think I’m ready to leave this place.

I’m not ready to miss you.
I’m not ready for goodbye.

Isn’t it crazy how in the quietest places, you can still feel the world rushing by? How in the busiest cities, you can still feel alone? Isn’t it crazy how we moan about having too little time for a walk in the park yet turning on your laptop for 5 minutes soon turns into 5 hours? Isn’t it crazy that there’s a world out there? Isn’t it crazy how not everybody cares?