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Grief is just love with no place to go.

What bullshit—I know, because my grief

seeks out every last corner, howling

in the unspoken. Did you know

the two outermost layers of the human

eye are called tunics? A covering

over all the heat behind. A sorry disguise,

twin lights of my mind. I can’t hide

much, and neither can you. Grief,

blinking back the crying pines,

needles making a hushed curtain

over the sky. Shedding what was alive

to blanket what’s still standing. Grief,

a look of no importance, barely

holding back the tides. A glassy film

to protect the picture, keep it

from decay. What we choose carefully

to display, what we don’t notice

slipping through. My grief, the other side

of sense, wind weaving through my hair—

your hands everywhere. Every good thing

about you cloaking my life in silence.

Posted 01/18/19
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