Unpacking Loss
it hits you
like a freight train,
but softer,
more like the silence
after it’s passed.
the bottles on the table—
they don’t speak to you anymore,
they’re just empty.
the letters from her
are still in the drawer
but the words don’t mean
what they used to.
the clock ticks louder
when you’re alone,
a cruel metronome
mocking the time
you can’t get back.
you think about
what it was to hold
something that mattered—
a hand, a dream,
the idea that tomorrow
wasn’t just another
repeat of today.
and now the walls lean in,
the bed sags heavier,
the mirror spits back
someone you don’t recognize.
loss doesn’t take you all at once;
it nibbles,
bit by bit,
until even your shadow
doesn’t trust you anymore.
but you keep walking,
because what else is there?
somewhere out there
the freight train circles back.
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