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.