i know you know we know

exactly two years ago now

g told me that grief is like a riding a wave

and gradually the space between waves becomes wider

but the peaks never become less violent. 

i feel like a child who's been dumped in the ocean

swum too far out and i can't touch the bottom

when i see you smiling on my screen

or someone i love is meeting you

and i just want to see you, too. 


i don't because i can't 

i make do with my thought through version of you

i'm so desperate for detail, 

so i trace my fingers slowly from your forehead to your nose

and still, hoping for you, 

i make myself small on one side of the bed. 



do i love this ridiculousness? this insanity? 

do i love the fever dream of writing 

wringing you out of my system

screaming in the car, sobbing at the show

looking up at the ceiling

praying no one (and someone) will hear me? 

(so i picture my death bed daily

i see you hesitate around the door

i want your palm against my forehead

i want no more time left)

'enough. please.' 

i whisper to the ocean. 


she swells

i hold my breath