Grief
First, understand that sorrow is a room
with no furniture, only echoes.
Every word you speak will return to you
slightly changed,
like a photograph left in sunlight.
Learn to sit still in emptiness.
Your body will protest,
it was built for movement,
for purpose,
for the illusion
of progress.
Ignore it. Stay.
Notice how grief has weight but no shape,
how it fills the spaces between your ribs
like water,
how it makes you both
heavier and more likely to float away.
Do not rush to redecorate the room.
People will offer you curtains, rugs,
paintings to cover the walls.
They mean well.
Refuse them gently.
The emptiness is not a problem to solve
but a truth to inhabit.
Sit with it.
Let it teach you the grammar of loss,
the syntax of what remains.
Eventually, and I cannot tell you when
you will notice a door you hadn't seen,
not an exit but an entrance,
leading somewhere you've never been.
You will hesitate at the threshold,
understanding that moving forward
means leaving something precious behind.
This is correct.
Step through anyway.
The room will always be there,
that echo chamber of what was.
You can visit whenever you need to,
but you no longer have to live there.
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